


Love Like It's Heaven On Earth

by giddytf2



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BAMF Clint Barton, BAMF Phil Coulson, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexual!Coulson, Bisexuality, Bottom Clint Barton, Bottom Phil, Bottom Phil Coulson, Childbirth, Clint Barton & Tony Stark Friendship, Clint Barton Feels, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Clint Needs a Hug, Clint and Tony are Bros, Digital Art, Dildos, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Illustrated, Illustrations, Insecure Clint Barton, Kid Fic, M/M, Masturbation, Morning Sickness, Mpreg, NSFW Art, Natasha Is a Good Bro, Nick Fury Knows All, Nick Fury Swears, OTP Feels, Other, Pegging, Penis In Vagina Sex, Phil Coulson & Nick Fury Friendship, Pregnancy, Protective Clint, Protective Phil Coulson, Romance, Strap-Ons, Supernatural Elements, Team Bonding, Team as Family, Tony Stark Is a Good Bro, Top Clint, Top Clint Barton, Top Phil Coulson, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Trans!Clint, Unplanned Pregnancy, Vaginal Sex, Vomiting, Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-04-25 08:53:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 74,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4954132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giddytf2/pseuds/giddytf2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phillip J. Coulson is a bisexual, fucking badass SHIELD agent who can take your eyeballs and tongue out with a tie clip if you hand in your mission reports a single minute late.</p><p>Clint Barton is a trans man who's just as fucking badass a SHIELD agent who can take out your balls with a palm-sized, glass globe paperweight.</p><p>And this is the (slightly supernatural, slightly angsty but mostly funny, fluffy and smutty) love story of how Phillip and Clint meet and fall in love with each other for all time.</p><p>(For those who aren't interested in reading the pregnancy/birth plots of the story, parts I and II make up the completed story for ya! Also, teaser art available for viewing under 'chapters' 3, 4 and 5!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> For the record, I am not a trans person. The portrayal of Clint in this story as a trans man is merely just one interpretation of him and not a reflection on all trans men, with as much research as I've been able to do on the subject matter. I apologize in advance if I do end up screwing up with terminology, procedures, etc or the story's tags. Feel free to inform me if that is so. I _am_ , however, a bisexual person, which probably influenced my decision a bit to write Coulson as one in this story. But again, the portrayal here is merely just one interpretation and not a reflection on all bisexual people.
> 
> As for the 'forever entities' that appear in the story, yes, they are heavily influenced by my love of Neil Gaiman's Sandman characters. But they are _not_ those characters, just my interpretation of similar entities in an Avengers universe where Norse gods and magic already exist. *grin* (Feel free to imagine them as Gaiman's characters if you like, anyway.)
> 
> And ya know, this story was supposed to be all fluff and romance, but some angst still sneaked in anyway. Because, Clint.
> 
> I highly recommend listening to [Love Returns](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7EM1zg-vydg) on loop from The Curious Case of Benjamin Button OST for the entirety of the story. _And_ because I am a mushbag, I think this is Clint's and Coulson's love song to each other: [Nat King Cole - I Love You for Sentimental Reasons](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4oWbzT_oAJ0).
> 
>  
> 
> Spoiler ahead!
> 
> About the 'childbirth' tag? Yeah, in part IV there will be a natural childbirth scene, and it may be graphic depending on your level of comfort regarding such matters. It'll mostly be bantering between Clint and Coulson and their actions / reactions throughout the experience, though, way more than any description about the birth itself, so there ya go. If the whole pregnancy carried to term / childbirth thing isn't your thing, I've also written the story in such a way that you can finish reading at part II. (But you'll miss a lot of Clint/Coulson bantering and team / baby bonding moments!)

**I.**

 

Phillip J. Coulson is born on a cloudless, star-sprinkled night on July 8th, 1964 in the Holy Family Memorial Hospital in Manitowoc, Wisconsin. He is Robert and Julie Coulson’s first child, and eventually, despite several attempts for more children, their only child. He’d wished for a younger brother, you see, and told his parents as much when he learned to speak and realized how big and quiet his room can be when he’s alone in it. He’s disappointed, of course, when Mama comes back from the doctor one day and tells him that there will be no brothers or sisters. But her eyes are red and wet, and although he’s still very young, he is also smart. He knows that what Mama needs isn’t another sad face but a hug and him saying, “It’s okay, Mama. I love you.”

When she smiles at him and touches his face and looks at him with all those stars in her eyes, he knows everything is going to be okay.

Phillip’s room is still very big and quiet sometimes, but he’s smart. He learns quickly that a dream can always be replaced by another, perhaps even better one. He learns that he is very much loved by his Mama and Papa, that they’ll give him whatever he wants if it’s in their power to do so. He learns that not everyone is as lucky as he is to have a Mama and Papa like his, and he loves them very much too. He learns that life is what you make of it here and now, with what you’ve got, until you find a way to get more things that make your life, your world bigger and better.

He goes to preschool and makes new friends who come over for playtime and birthday parties bursting with gifts and cake and laughter. He fills the empty spaces of his room with posters and memorabilia of his beloved hero, Captain America, that Mama and Papa buy for him until there aren’t any more empty spaces. Every night, after Mama and Papa come into his room to read him a bedtime story and then kiss him goodnight, he gazes up at Captain America on his door who gazes back at him from a giant poster with a wide, brilliant smile and a salute.

“Good night, Captain America,” he says, saluting back, his round, rosy face solemn with respect, before he slips under the blankets and hugs his Captain America doll to sleep.

He is loved. He has no worries, other than what he’ll have for breakfast in the morning and whether he can go play in the park with Papa later in the day. Everything is okay. Everything is just right.

The years pass, and then he is seven years old and he’s just discovered that he isn’t like other boys. Other boys like girls, and only girls. Other boys don’t look at boys like he does. Other boys don’t _like_ boys too, like he does. He finds that out when he tries to kiss his friend Josh at school and the teachers laugh but hastily drag him away from Josh, as if he’s done something bad, as if he’s bad and may make Josh bad too.

Mrs. Shipman, his mathematics teacher, pulls him away from the other students and tells him that boys should only kiss girls. Only evil boys who hate Jesus kiss other boys. Only evil boys like boys like _that_ , and Phillip, _you_ _’re not an evil boy, are you, you’re a_ good _boy_.

Yes, he’s a good boy. Mama and Papa tell him that all the time too. But he likes boys just as much as he likes girls, he knows that. Papa once told him that Jesus made him just the way he is, with no mistake, which means if he likes boys just as much as he likes girls, Jesus must have made him that way. Right?

He tells Mrs. Shipman that, who then tells his parents what he said while he sits next to them in his otherwise empty classroom. The other students have left for the day. He’s glad about that, because Mrs. Shipman doesn’t look happy. Mama and Papa don’t look happy. They look worried, like something bad has happened and they didn’t see it coming. Is he really bad? _Evil_ , like Mrs. Shipman said?

Mama smiles at him like she always does as she and Papa tuck him into bed for the night.

“No, honey,” Mama says, sitting to his left on the bed, stroking his thick, dark hair. “You’re not evil. Not at all. You’re our beautiful boy.”

“We love you no matter what,” Papa says, sitting to his right on the bed, patting his belly over the blankets.

“Does Captain America love me too?” he asks them, and Papa’s lips twitch like they do when he tries not to smile.

“Of course he does, son. The only people he doesn’t love are Nazis, and that’s because _they_ _’re_ the real evil people.”

Phillip glances at Captain America on his door. He gazes at Captain America’s gleaming, blue eyes and pearly teeth, at Captain America’s big, brawny body and limbs. He wishes he could meet Captain America. He wishes he could talk to Captain America about liking girls and boys and ask Captain America why Mrs. Shipman thinks it’s evil when he isn’t a Nazi. He _isn_ _’t_ , right?

“I’m not a Nazi, am I, Papa?” he asks gravely, his lower lip trembling, and Papa does smile this time. Papa chuckles quietly and leans forward to hug him close, petting his head.

“No, son. Of course you’re not. You’re an American, and Captain America fights for the rights and freedom of all Americans.”

“No, he doesn’t,” he protests, surprising Mama and Papa. When he leans back and they look at him with warm, curious eyes, he says solemnly, “He fights for the rights and freedom of _all good people_.”

And when they smile at him and look at him with all those stars in their eyes, he knows everything is still going to be okay.

 

 <<< >>>

 

A few months after Phillip discovers that he likes both girls and boys, about three hundred and forty three miles away or a five and half hours’ trip by car, Clint Barton is born on January 7th, 1971 in the Waverly Health Center in Waverly, Iowa. He’s the second child of his family, after his older brother, Barney. Although he knows Ma really wants him, he also knows Pop really _doesn_ _’t_. He knows from Barney that Pop hadn’t been there when Ma gave birth to him, that Barney had to sit alone in some strange, white room while Ma screamed and screamed until he popped into the world.

“Ma said you were the prettiest baby girl she ever saw,” Barney says to him one day on the front porch of their rickety home, when Pop’s away on a trucking job and isn’t around to beat them blue and black.

The weird thing is, Pop and Ma and Barney keep calling him a girl when he knows he’s a _boy_. Ma named him Clio, but that’s not his name. _His_ name is _Clint_. He picked it himself and he likes it a lot.

“I’m not a _girl_ ,” he snaps at Barney, throwing a clod of soil at Barney’s head and hitting him dead center on his forehead. “I’m a _boy_!”

“No, you’re not! You’re a _girl_ ‘cause you got nothing between your legs, stupid!”

“I am not, _I am not_! Shut up!” Clint yells, jumping up and kicking Barney in the thigh.

Barney howls from the pain and jumps up and fights back, punching and kicking, and Clint laughs because he _likes_ this, he likes that Barney doesn’t _treat_ him like a girl despite calling him one all the time. He likes hitting back as hard, shrieking like a hawk Ma once told him about in a bedtime story, uncaring of mud staining the dress he’s wearing that he hates so much. He’s only wearing it because he doesn’t have any clean shorts to wear until Ma washes them. He’d rip apart all his dresses if he could, if it didn’t make Ma cry.

“Barney! _Clio_! Stop that right now!”

Ma comes rushing out of the house to drag them apart. She smacks Barney hard across the back of his thick-skull head, which makes him wince and shout, “ _Oww_! It wasn’t me who started it, it was Clio!”

Clint is about to lob another clod of soil at Barney’s head when Ma grabs him and makes him drop the clod. Ma kneels on the ground in front of him, gripping and shaking him by the shoulders. She looks tired. She looks sad and angry, although he knows she’s not angry at him.

“Clio, did you hit your brother?”

“Yes, she did!”

“I’m not a she, I’m a _he_! I’m a _boy_ , how many times do I hafta say that?!” Clint shouts at Barney over Ma’s shoulder.

This time, Ma shakes him really hard, and he quietens at the frenzied shine of Ma’s old eyes.

“Clio. _Clio_ , you’re my _daughter_. You’re my little girl,” Ma says, and she sounds like she wants to cry. “You have to remember that, okay? You know how much your father doesn’t _like_ it when you say things like that.”

 _I don_ _’t care_ , Clint wants to say, _I don_ _’t care what Pop thinks when he hits you and makes you cry_.

Instead, he says nothing and looks away from Ma’s sad, old eyes, glaring at the ground.

Later that night, when Barney’s asleep and snoring in the other single bed of their small bedroom, Ma is sitting on the side of his bed when she says, “Clio, do you know why I named you that?”

He doesn’t say anything and picks at a thread sticking out of the hem of his blanket. He doesn’t look at Ma. Clio’s not his name. It’s Clint. He’s said it so many times but nobody listens.

“I used to go to college. That’s a school for grownups. Did I ever tell you that?” Ma says to him, brushing his long, blond hair that he hates too with her fingers. “I had this class about Greek gods and goddesses and muses, and I learned about a muse called Clio. She was the muse of history and poetry. Her name means ‘made famous’, or ‘celebrate’.”

Clint still doesn’t say anything or look at Ma. He likes it when Ma strokes his hair, but he wishes so badly that it’s cut short like Barney’s. It doesn’t feel right so long as it is. The name Ma gave him doesn’t feel right either.

“One day, you’re going to be famous, Clio. I can feel it in my heart. One day, you’re going to be famous and so many people will love you and celebrate your name.”

 _My name is Clint_ , he wants to say. _My name is Clint Barton, and that_ _’s what people are going to remember._

Instead, he says, “Why don’t you go to school anymore, Ma?”

Ma doesn’t say anything to that for a while. When she does, she leans down and gives him a kiss on his forehead while tucking the blanket around his shoulders.

“I fell in love with your father, and now I’m paying for it,” Ma whispers, and she sounds like she’s already crying.

 

<<< >>>

 

High up, higher than the stars and the planets and nebulae can ever hope to be, higher than heaven itself, is a forever place where a handful of entities live forever while observing the fleeting, _fascinating_ lives of the bipedal creatures of a certain blue, green and brown planet. Now these entities aren’t gods, although many of the creatures of that certain planet have worshiped them as such in some way or another throughout the coiling, ever-accelerating passage of Time. They don’t think of themselves as gods either, although sometimes they’re tempted to, if only to change things up now and then. (Forever _is_ a very long time.)

They look how they wish to at any given time, be it as a gaseous cloud a million parsecs wide or as a microscopic, iridescent, three-headed butterfly with six wings or as a dark blue-skinned, golden-eyed being with a head, a body, two arms and two legs very much like that of the creatures that still worship them. (Humans, that’s what the creatures are called, yes.) They go by names that humans have bestowed upon them in a multitude of languages and thoughts: Dream, Desire, Despair, Destiny, and such. (They were quite partial towards names starting with the letter ‘d’, they won’t deny it.) There are others, but they’re too busy with their never-ending work or lost somewhere out there in the ether and are unable to join them in this most crucial endeavor.

“Really, brother-sister?” Dream says to their sibling, Desire, as Desire gazes down at two particular, young humans who live on a continent known as North America on that planet, with a mere three hundred and forty three miles between them. “You summoned me from my current renovation of the great halls of Valhalla for _two humans_?”

Today Dream is, ironically, a human-like person in what humans would describe as a pristine white, three-piece suit and a tie of ever-swirling auroras. Their head is an explosion of light and gas matter frozen in a season, neither in existence or out of it. Desire is an ever-twisting myriad of red and golden light bursts, moving sinuously around their brothers-sisters Dream and Despair, who is a truly opaque, blacker than black, smooth apeirogon.

“Oh, Dream, just look at them,” Desire says, showing them through a ragged, precious piece of the Universe That Was Before two human boys who grow before their eyes like green sprouts out of Earthian soil after something humans call winter.

The dark-haired, blue-eyed boy is slumbering soundly in his plush bed in a room brimming with pictures and knick-knacks of another bigger, stronger human in a red, white and blue outfit (that Dream secretly adores). The boy is clearly happy, his soft lips quirked up even in sleep. His mother and father clearly love him. They will ensure that he is kept safe from harm until they can’t anymore, until it’s his turn to protect them instead.

The other boy, a blond, blue-eyed one, is having a nightmare (and Dream knows exactly what it’s about but won’t say), writhing on his bed and crying and demanding (begging) someone to _stop it, stop hurting her, stop it, stop it_. He has long, luxuriant hair but hates it so. He battles with it as much as he does with the monster in his dream. The boy is clearly in pain, his face scrunched up even in sleep. His mother loves him as much as she’s able, his father doesn’t. She will ensure that he and his brother are kept as safe as she can from their father, until their father kills her and himself in a gruesome vehicle accident after he drinks too much alcohol again.

The dark-haired boy grows up into a lanky, intelligent and calm teenager who already exhibits qualities necessary of a team leader. He exudes confidence and has a seemingly infallible attitude of positivity throughout high school. He’s unafraid of failure, responsible, and cares for the people around him, earning him trustworthy friends who care for him in return. He communicates well and performs his tasks competently, committed to each one once he agrees to handle them, earning his teacher’s recommendations and favor. Yes, competent is the perfect word to sum up the young man who signs up for another school called the United States Military Academy and is immediately accepted, to the surprise of absolutely no one.

 _We_ _’re so proud of you, Phil_ , his parents say to him with smiles and unaging stars in their eyes. _We always will be_.

 _Thanks, Mom, Dad_ , he replies, his eyes crinkled, and when he hugs them, his arms are now long and high enough to go around their shoulders.

The blond-haired boy grows up into an angry, violent albeit intelligent teenager who’s trapped in a body he hates, trapped in an existence that’s neither wanted enough to stay in for the rest of his life or hated enough to leave right now. For a while, he’s a grunt for the many stars of the Carson Carnival of Traveling Wonders. Then he catches the eye of one of them, the Swordsman, who turns him into an assistant and later, a master archer whose act will make him, for a short while, a star of the circus too. Betrayal and greed will cause him to lose everything, all over again: The Swordsman beats him close to death for trying to turn him to the authorities for embezzlement, for trying to do the right thing. Barney, who’s stayed by his side all this time, through their years in the orphanage after their parents died, abandons him.

 _Clio, I gotta go_ , Barney is saying to him, although his hair is cut so short now and his chest is bound so his budding, hated breasts don’t show. _It'_ _s just - it’s better if we’re apart for a while. Okay_?

 _My name_ _’s_ Clint _, not Clio_ , he shouts, but Barney isn’t listening, Barney never did, never does. Barney disappears from his life forever in a van with several other guys and he doesn’t care, he doesn’t fucking care because he has to look out for himself now, numero uno. He’s always alone anyway, even when Barney and Ma were there in the flesh with him. You can have a brother and mother and father and still feel like the loneliest person in the world anyway, like your room is so very big and quiet and _empty_ no matter how many things you put on its walls and in it.

And high up, higher than the stars and the planets and nebulae can ever hope to be, higher than heaven itself, Desire sighs and murmurs, “Wouldn’t it be lovely, if Phillip and Clint met each other one day and fell in love with each other for all time?”

Despair snorts and growls, “Love? When the golden-haired one is an exquisite banquet of _pain_ and _suffering_? Nay, I say they should never meet, so that I may feast upon him to his dying day.”

Dream says nothing and yet remains, which is more than Desire had hoped for.

Destiny, who is invisible today and yet a vast cloak hovering over them, over all, says in a resonant yet placid voice, “What shall be, shall be.”

Despair snorts again and vanishes, now that the show has ended. Dream still remains, quiet as ever, but Desire is now listening raptly to what Destiny has to say into their ear, what they’ve been destined to say into the ear of the dark-haired human. Desire is unaware of Destiny also speaking into Dream’s ear, of what Dream is destined to say into the ear of the blond-haired human.

Desire winks out of their forever place and winks into invisible form above the slumbering young man in his knick-knack-filled bedroom. The young man is leaving in the morning for that school nine hundred and seventy five miles away from his home. This is the last time he will ever sleep in this room, as innocent as he still is.

 _Hello, Phillip_ , Desire whispers into his ear, _hello, darling. I can_ _’t wait for you to see what you’ve got waiting for you in the decades to come. You’re going to feel alone for a little while, when Mom and Dad have to leave you behind and go to a higher place than this. You’re going to go places and see and do so many things that will change you and make you bigger,_ better _. You_ _’re going to meet so many interesting people who’ll make you feel less alone, and one of them will be unlike any other person you’ve ever met or will ever meet again. He’ll be the one who makes you forget what it feels like to be alone. He’ll be everything you thought and never thought you need, and you him. So no matter what happens, little one, hold on,_ hold on _. Hold on to who you are and what you really want, and find each other in this tiny, momentary world_.

When they wink out of the room and back into their forever place, they are unaware of Dream winking into their same form next to a pitiful excuse of a bed in a dour, dim caravan. The blond, young boy is curled up on the bed, bruised and bandaged, a backpack of meager possessions clutched tightly to his skinny torso. The young man’s eyes are shut in a slumber of exhaustion, but there are glistening trails down his thin face. Dream lays a gossamer hand upon the boy’s cropped, golden hair.

 _Hello, Clint_ , Dream says, for that is the name that this human has chosen for himself, the name that truly matters. _Your dreams are dark and forlorn. I have walked in them before when they were brighter with hope, when you still believed in things higher than that of heaven. Your dreams may be dark and forlorn now, but this I say to you, they and your life ahead will not always be so. As a storm must pass sooner or later, so shall you find the freedom and peace which you seek so desperately. I leave with you a dream of the man who will come to you with this freedom and peace. So no matter what happens, little one, hold on, hold on. Hold on to who you really are and what you want, and find each other in this tiny, momentary world_.

And with a puff of glittering sleep-sand across Clint’s face from a fading, gossamer hand, Clint dreams of a man with thin, dark hair in a midnight blue, pinstriped suit and a purple, paisley tie. A handsome, competent, _good_ man with crinkled, blue eyes and lips that quirk up in a not-smile that he knows somehow is a smile solely for him. He doesn’t know who this man is, but he likes him very much. He wants to meet him one day. He thinks he may just fall in love with him one day. He thinks that this man is the one who won’t leave him behind when everyone else has.

When Phillip awakens in the morning, he sits on the side of his bed and gazes out the window with gentle eyes at the sunshine that seems as radiant as his heart feels. He is replete with a sense of hope, a sense of something tremendous, something _wonderful_ coming his way. He feels like he can face whole armies of soldiers, face the whole world, even _death_ for this wonderful thing. Whatever it is, he has to hold on, no matter what, until he finds it. And he will. He knows he will.

When Clint awakens in the morning, he sits on the side of the pathetic pallet bed, knowing it will be for the last time. He’s leaving the damn circus today, and good fucking riddance to it too. He’s going to make it out there on his own, he knows it. For the first time as long as he can remember, he feels a sense of _hope_. He feels like something tremendous, something … no, _someone_ wonderful is coming his way, someone worth facing a thousand Swordsmen, the whole fucking world. Someone worth facing _gods_ for, whoever it is. He has to hold on, no matter what, until he finds this incredible person.

He only hopes that he’ll survive long enough to do so.

 

<<< >>>

 

In time, Coulson - who goes by his last name now more than his first - learns the word that defines one facet of who he is as a person: Bisexual. It’s a simple-enough word, loaded with a history heavy enough to shatter mountains, a history stretching back all the way to Ancient Greece. It’s a word that fits him like his dependable M16 rifle does in his hands. It rolls easily off his tongue the day he tells his best friend and fellow Ranger, Marcus Johnson, that he is one.

Marcus doesn’t even blink.

“Is this the part where I scream and run like a bat outta hell, Cheese?” Marcus says, utterly straight-faced, and Coulson has to make a face to not smile instead. “Is this the part where you tell me you’ve been in love with a handsome, _magnificent_ bastard like me and you want my gorgeous, ebony-skinned babies?”

“You are an asshole,” Coulson says, grinning anyway, his thick, dark brown hair standing at odd ends, his face speckled with dust and dirt that covers most of his battle dress uniform.

“Hey, I’m not the one telling his best pal that he likes cock as much as vagina during a _thirty-one mile march_ through a _bombed air field and mine fields_!” Marcus retorts, grinning as widely, his teeth pearlescent under searing, Middle Eastern sunlight. “You couldn’t think of a more _convenient_ time to break this shit to me?”

“No time like the present, Marcus.”

“Uh huh, says the guy who coulda told me _years ago_ when we first met.”

Coulson doesn’t quite know how to reply to that. He’d been as surprised as anyone else when Marcus warmed up to him so fast. He’d heard all the crazy, _scary_ shit about Marcus long before they even met each other in the Army Ranger School, when he was still a cadet at West Point: Marcus is the kind of guy who can fucking kill you with his _eyes_ if a glare alone can commit murder. Marcus is the kind of guy who can smash your head to a pulp with his mere fists if you say _one_ bad word about his friends. Marcus is the kind of guy who sees an advancing army of gargantuan tanks and trucks teeming with armed, bloodthirsty soldiers while all he’s got is a machine gun and an RPG, and turns to you and says with a smile, _now things are_ even, _fuckers_.

It’s all true. Coulson’s seen all of it with his own eyes, being Marcus’ best friend and all. Doesn’t guarantee Marcus wouldn’t have smashed _his_ head to a pulp, though, after finding out he likes cock as much as vagina when it comes to fucking.

Marcus looks at him like he knows exactly what’s going through his mind.

“You’re a dumbass, Phil,” Marcus says, punching him on the upper arm. “You think _that_ _’s_ gonna scare me off? Make me drop you as a friend? You think that _little_ of me?”

“Of course not, Fury,” Coulson says, seeing the satisfied glint in Marcus’ eyes at him using that nickname. Marcus really likes it. “But come on, you can’t blame me for being … careful.”

For a long time, Marcus is silent while they march on through devastated ruins upon miles and miles of arid, coarse sand. The harsh wind whips their faces and hair. The stench of charred metal clogs their nostrils.

“You remember what I said? About the _agency_?”

Coulson glances and squints at Marcus, at Marcus’ arresting profile with the sun behind it.

“Yeah. I do.”

“I want you to be my right hand man when the time comes for it to rise, Cheese. I don’t trust anyone else to do even half as good a job as you will.”

He hears what Marcus is saying to him. Hears what Marcus is saying between the lines, the promise already made there.

 _I accept you as you are_ , the promise says. _And it_ _’s going to stay that way, no matter how far and high we go_.

He gazes at Marcus until Marcus gazes back at him.

“You’re a dumbass, Marcus,” he says, poker-faced, his eyes twinkling. “You actually had to _ask_?”

Marcus’ grin at him this time rivals the sun itself.

“When the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division becomes a reality,” Marcus says, grabbing his shoulder and shaking it, still grinning, “we are gonna be _gods_.”

Coulson rolls his eyes, a habit that he’ll simmer down to a mere narrowing of his eyes by the time he is the legendary Agent Phil Coulson in a dark gray, tailored suit with thinner hair and even sharper eyes.

“Tell me we won’t have to say that every time we introduce ourselves.”

Marcus lets out a brusque laugh.

“Nah. It shortens to a real nice acronym, see? We’ll just call it SHIELD.”

 

<<< >>>

 

In time, Clint - who’s never called Clio anymore since nobody alive apart from Barney even knows it, as far as he’s aware - learns the label that defines who he is and answers so many questions he’s had about himself his whole life: Transgender man. It’s a relatively new label, at least to Clint, who has to learn it from a shrink - oops, _psychiatrist_ \- while he’s being imprisoned by some shady, secretive organization with some stupid, long-ass name he can’t be bothered to remember.

“You’re not being imprisoned, Ms. Barton,” the asshole in the ill-fitting suit who tasered him says, referring to him wrongly _again_. “The Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division is interested in _hiring_ you.”

“Do you actually have to say all that every time?” he asks, his muscular arms folded over his chest (not his breasts, he hates them and they don’t exist as far as he’s concerned), appearing bored with everything. “And it’s _Mr. Barton_ , fuckwad.”

They’re in the psychiatrist’s office for the third time, on board some huge flying plane called a Helicarrier. He has yet to get the chance to see the plane itself, since Mr. Asshole-in-the-ill-fitting-suit _tasered_ him and knocked him out while he was still down on Earth in New York City instead of being tens of thousands of feet up in the air, but he can tell it’s _huge_. Its engines are humming under his sneakers. He can feel the reverberation through the carpeted floor. Man, he’d love to go to the bridge to see how it’s being controlled and flown, except Mr. Asshole-in-the-ill-fitting-suit and the psychiatrist will surely use that to make him stay.

Mr. Asshole-in-the-ill-fitting-suit is pacing the floor next to a long, oak desk set up with a really advanced-looking computer, behind which the psychiatrist is sitting. Clint’s sitting on a cushioned chair with arm rests facing the desk.

“Did you hear what I said -”

“I don’t wanna be here. I don’t wanna work for you assholes. I wanna _leave_!” he says yet again, glaring at the other man, his hands clenched into fists.

Mr. Asshole-in-the-ill-fitting-suit sighs heavily and swipes one hand over his salt-and-pepper, slicked back hair. He looks like some kind of fat, mean criminal stooge rather than an agent of some _intelligence agency_. The psychiatrist, on the other hand, looks like she belongs in a framed painting, dressed in an obviously expensive, purple pantsuit. Her short, white hair is neat and smooth. She has a kind, round face and kind eyes, like a doting grandmother’s.

He hates the stooge, but he thinks he may actually like the psychiatrist. She’s wearing his favorite color too.

“Look, I had no choice but to taser you. You refused to stop when we told you to, and you shot at us with _arrows_ and made us chase you over _eight rooftops_ and sent at least two agents to the med bay!”

Clint grins, although it looks far more like the grin of a lion.

“ _Good_. I wish I shot _you_ in your fat, lumpy ass!”

Mr. Asshole-in-the-ill-fitting-suit stares at him, then at the psychiatrist.

“Help me out here, will you, Dr. Langley?”

He looks like he wants to cry, which pleases Clint inordinately. Dr. Langley looks like she’s trying not to smile, which makes Clint like her more.

“Agent Miller, let me talk to him alone,” she says, looking him in the eye, and he likes her even more.

“Okay. It’s your funeral.”

Clint sticks out his tongue at Agent Asshole’s back. After Agent Asshole leaves, he and Dr. Langley stare at each other for a while. He’s been on this Helicarrier for two days now, fed surprisingly delicious food in a vast mess hall when he said he was hungry and even given a room with a nice bed and adjoining, clean bathroom (with security guards outside, of course) and fresh clothes, but it’s only now that he feels … safe, at all. Only now has he met someone who _listens_ to him.

He drops the act and lets his guard down, just the tiniest bit, as he asks, “Is he serious?”

“About SHIELD being interested in hiring you?” Dr. Langley says, her face as kind and open as ever. She has a nice voice too, mellow like a cello when it’s played by a maestro.

Clint nods.

“Yes. He is. SHIELD has been monitoring your activities for some time, Clint. We feel that your _talents_ are being wasted on petty crime when you can contribute so much more in an environment where you can train said talents while having your needs met.”

“Talents?” Clint snorts. “What, me shooting things and people with arrows?”

Dr. Langley gives him a pointed look with warm eyes and a slight smile and says, “Have you ever _missed_?”

Clint grins at that, even as he looks down at the floor. Yeah, okay, it’s true, he’s never, ever missed a target, not since his circus days. He’s so damn good now that the streets have given him another name because of it, a name he likes just as much as the one he chose for himself.

“Nope,” he says, looking at Dr. Langley again.

“Then you shouldn’t wonder why SHIELD wants you. You know.”

Clint nods in acknowledgment of that. Then, after a minute of biting his lower lip and picking at a fraying thread of his jeans, he says quietly, “You said … you said I’m a … transgender man.”

“Yes.”

Clint hones his eyes on the fraying thread, pulling at it again and again.

“There’s a real word for it. Like, an official word.”

“Yes.”

“Does that mean … I’m not the only one?” Clint asks, looking up at Dr. Langley once more, his eyes wide and hopeful. He stops picking at the fraying thread.

Dr. Langley’s reply is soft. Her hooded, hazel eyes make him feel as if he’s being swathed in a warm, comforting blanket. They make him feel like he’s coming home.

“Yes, Clint. You’re not the only one. You’re not alone.”

He feels so _stupid_ at suddenly having to choke down a gigantic lump in his throat, at having to blink his eyes to see Dr. Langley clearly.

“So I’m - I’m _not_ crazy. I’m not crazy for _knowing_ I’m a _guy_ stuck in a - in a _girl_ _’s_ body.”

“No, Clint, you are _not_ crazy,” Dr. Langley says, and Clint … Clint believes her. He’s _safe_ here. And if Agent Asshole’s telling the truth about him not being a prisoner then maybe … maybe this is where he can finally stop running. Maybe this is where he’ll finally find some freedom, some _peace_.

He blinks a few more times as he glances down at his chest, where his bound breasts are. When he binds them, no one can tell he even has any, even under a snug t-shirt like the one he’s wearing. To actually have them removed, to never have to bind his breasts again because they’re _gone_ -

“You said, if I work for SHIELD,” he hurriedly says, before his tongue freezes with doubts and apprehension, “that SHIELD will … operate on me.”

“Yes. SHIELD will handle the costs and arrange everything to your approval, if the hormone treatments and surgery _are_ what you want.”

His hands are on his lap when he clenches them into fists again, but it’s out of anticipation. Oh yes, he wants. He _wants_.

But what is this going to _cost_ him?

Nothing is free in this fucked up world. He’s learned that lesson well since he was born.

“But you - you only met me days ago,” he murmurs, looking Dr. Langley in the eye. She hasn’t once looked away from him, and usually, he’d be freaked out by attention like that. From her, it’s consoling. It reminds him of Ma, when Ma would smile and stroke his hair and look like she didn’t have a care in the world, didn’t have a husband who beat her up for fun until she bled.

“And?”

“Why are you doing this for me?”

 _What_ _’s the_ real _price I have to pay for this_ , he wants to ask, _and when are you going to take it all away from me_?

Dr. Langley leans forward with her forearms on her desk, one hand over the other, maintaining eye contact with him.

“What you need to know, for now, is that SHIELD takes care of its employees. Excellent care, especially of its agents. If a particular treatment is essential to an agent’s wellbeing and competence at their job, it’s only logical that that treatment is given to the agent. Don’t you think?”

Out of sight of Dr. Langley, he wrings his hands on his lap even as he gazes at her. It sounds good. Too good to be true. There _has_ to be a catch somewhere. Isn’t there?

“So if … if I stop working for you later, are you gonna … reverse the operation or something? And stop the hormone treatments?”

“No, Clint. I promise. If you like, I can even get an official letter from Director Fury to confirm this. Or arrange a meeting with him, if it comes to that.”

He blinks at that. Holy shit, the _boss_ of this organization is willing to take the time to _meet_ him? _Him_? And the boss is _okay_ with him, a _transgender man_ , as an agent of SHIELD?

His hands gradually go still, flat upon his thighs.

“And all you guys want … is me. Working for you,” he murmurs, blinking again. “And you’ll gimme regular pay. And a place to stay, here on the Helicarrier.”

“And as much food as you want at the mess hall.”

Clint blushes at that. Jeez, yeah, he did eat like a pig the first time he went to the mess hall and saw all that _food_ right there for the devouring, in rows and rows of shiny, stainless steel buffet trays. In hindsight, he’s amazed Dr. Langley didn’t tell him off at all while he chowed down on three stuffed plates of everything he could get his hands on, right in front of her. His only excuse is that he hadn’t eaten anything except an energy bar or two for four days before he got captured, but still.

He and Dr. Langley stare each other for a while again, her expression softening even more, softening something in the left side of his chest that makes his lips curve up and his eyes crinkle.

He glances down, then up at her again.

There’s no going back after this. He knows that, and he thinks that maybe he should be scared of that, but he isn’t. He’s … excited. He’s _elated_.

He finally has a place where he can _belong_.

“I got one condition,” he says, and although Dr. Langley’s expression doesn’t change at all, he can tell that she’s pleased.

“Name it.”

“You guys are gonna be keeping a _file_ on me, right?” At her nod, he says, “I want the surgery and hormone treatments kept off the records. I don’t wanna be listed as anything other than a man. I don’t want anybody to know about … you know.” He gestures at his groin, his face turning red again. “What I’m like down there.”

“Agent Miller knows of your status, as do I. So does Director Fury, and so will the surgeons and doctors involved in your treatments, but that’s out of my hands, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t mind if you do. Or Director Fury, I guess. He’s like everyone’s boss, right?”

“He is the current head of SHIELD, yes.”

“The only reason Agent Asshole knows is because he tackled me after _tasering_ me. _Hmph_.” Clint crosses his arms over his chest again, wrinkling his nose. “I don’t even have any balls and mine are bigger than his. Can I kick him in his tiny balls?”

Dr. Langley’s lips tremor for a moment.

“I’ll make sure that Agent Miller doesn’t say a word about your status outside of this office.”

“Can I kick him in his tiny balls anyway?”

“No, Clint, you can’t, not without getting reported for assaulting a fellow agent.”

“Can I kick him _accidentally_ in his tiny balls anyway?”

Dr. Langley smiles outright at that. She looks even more divine when she does.

Later, he listens to everything she says as she explains each document he has to fill out and sign to become an official agent of SHIELD. He fills them all without hesitation, etching his name with a cursive flair with a black pen. When Agent Asshole enters the room again, Clint oh-so-coincidentally has Dr. Langley’s palm-sized, glass globe paperweight in hand and _oops_ , it just happens to slip from his hand and straight at Agent Asshole’s groin.

“I’ll see ya later, Doc Langley,” Clint says nonchalantly as Agent Asshole makes a noise like a strangled elephant and goes down like one on the carpet.

“Until next time, Clint,” Dr. Langley replies, two fingers of her right hand pressed to her tremoring lips.

He stands up and heads for the door, waving goodbye at her without looking back. He doesn’t look back either at Agent Asshole who’s staggering after him with both hands over a now acutely sensitive groin and cursing a streak under his breath.

“I guess Agent Barton does have kind of a nice ring to it,” Clint says to himself as he grins and swaggers down the hallway, his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Yeah. Agent Clint Barton, codenamed Hawkeye.”

 

<<< >>>

 

What Clint learns in time after _that_ is that not only is he a trans man, but a gay one. He supposes it explains to some extent why he has zero interest in retaining his breasts, small as they are, and wants them gone, gone, _gone_.

“Bye bye, you sucky bags of fat,” he says gleefully at them with his shirt lifted up in his quarters, the night before he has to go to the medical bay for the bilateral mastectomy surgery. “And _heeelloooo_ , sexy, flat chest!”

Still, he squishes them with his hands one more time, pushing them together to form a cleavage. They’re somewhat nice to squeeze sometimes, he admits, like _stress balls_ or something. He just much prefers them removed. He’s been sure of this from the day they sprouted on his chest and forced him to remember with every waking moment that he’s in the wrong body. He’s still sure of it after the docs had told him the risks associated with surgery like this, _any_ surgery.

He may die on the operating table. Suffer complications later on that can result in infections that cause nasty scarring, or loss of sensation that can be permanent. Delayed healing. Blood clots. A stroke from blood clots. He may _die_ on the operating table.

 _But it_ _’ll be worth it_ , he thinks later, as the anesthesiologist inserts an IV needle into his forearm and then tells him to count backwards from a hundred, _it_ _’ll be worth it_.

By ninety-five, he’s out like a light.

He has no memory whatsoever of the operation. He thinks, though, that he may have been somewhere else for a little while, somewhere celestial and eternal with equally celestial and eternal beings beyond mere description who murmur encouraging words into his ear, who tell him that the stars and the planets and nebulae are beginning to align themselves in preparation of something tremendous, something _wonderful_ to come.

 _It won_ _’t be long now, little one_ , they’d said. _You_ _’ll meet him soon, and he you_.

Hours later, he awakens in a recovery room with a bandaged chest with Dr. Langley at his bedside, with no memory of those words but a sense of so much _hope_ that he has to shut his eyes before Dr. Langley sees them glistening. Days and days later, he’s back in his quarters, and he’s removed his bandages and for the first time in his life, his upper body looks just the way he’s always believed it to be.

“Oh my god,” he whispers to himself, carefully touching his now male-contoured chest while avoiding the healing, stitched areas. He has to blink several times to clear his vision enough to see how splendid a job the surgeons have done. They’d told him that the scars will fade in time, that sensation will return in time to his nipples and surrounding skin, and he’s fine, just fine with all that.

They’ve given him a gift for which he can never repay them enough. They’ve given him something that he knows many people like him can’t afford to have, not with the advanced medical technology and expertise that SHIELD’s medical department possesses. Along with the hormone treatments, in a year or two from now, his voice will deepen. He’ll develop facial and body hair (and be able to grow a mustache or a beard!). He’ll develop bigger muscles too, especially in his upper body, which means even stronger arms and shoulders for handling his bow and arrows. Decreased body fat, no more periods ( _woohoo_!), and oh yeah, increased libido and a _bigger clit_. He’s _really_ looking forward to giving _that_ a test drive.

He has no idea what other trans men may feel about the genitals they’ve been born with, but he figures, if he can come like a freight train numerous times just from one short bout of masturbation, he can deal with having a clit and vagina instead of a cock and balls. He already fucking _loves_ his clit before hormone treatment, and if his libido is really going to go higher than it already is, he’s going to _die_ when he finally gets his hands on one of those vibrating dildos with the extra joint for clit stimulation.

And as the years pass, he does indeed transform physically into the man he’s always known himself to be: His voice deepens, turning what had already been a praised singing voice into something even more sumptuous. (He’s a total hit at SHIELD’s New Year party karaoke contests.) His brows become heavier, his cheeks sharper. His nose, which he’d already adored for its masculine projection before treatment, becomes even more prominent. His jaw becomes more sculpted and wider. His Adam’s apple becomes visible. His lips do become slightly thinner, but they fit the rest of his face. His face and chest (his gorgeous, _gorgeous_ flat albeit burly chest) develop hair that’s a darker blond than that on his head. He tries to get away with having a five o’clock beard shadow on his face as often as possible despite regulations because, hey, _sexy beast at twelve o_ _’clock_.

When he puts on his R&D-developed, black-and-purple Hawkeye outfit for the first time instead of the usual SHIELD tactical outfits, he gets hit on over a dozen times by various SHIELD personnel in the first half hour. It’s the arms, babe, and he knows it.

“Oh, you are one fine-looking man, Clint Barton,” he says to his reflection in his quarters’ bathroom mirror one day, after another completed mission and another gold star on his record. He has his gloves and pants on but his top off, and the muscles of his upper body have never been more defined and robust than they are now. The scars under his pecs aren’t even noticeable anymore unless he raises his arms high in strong lighting. Not only has sensation returned to his nipples as the docs promised, they’re even _more_ sensitive than before.

With a body like this, he knows the word down the gossip vine is that he’s banging people left and right like some quarterback going through the whole cheerleader squad on prom night (which he’s never experienced, since he never finished high school). The word is that he’s something of a stud, that he’s fucked every female SHIELD agent he’s worked with and their female friends and _their_ female friends. That he’s even fucked the lethal Black Widow, also known as Natasha Romanov, SHIELD’s most notorious acquisition of a specialist agent. (And boy, did Natasha laugh when he told her that over vodka in his quarters just the other night.)

It’s fucking hilarious, considering he has yet to even _kiss_ someone.

Shit, he can’t even hold onto a _handler_ for long, much less a potential sexual partner. He’s already gone through at least six handlers, all of them ending their handler-asset relationship with him with something akin to, “Barton is a fucking crazy, pain in the ass who never listens to what I say and constantly pulls his own bullshit on the field and SHIELD should just kick him out before _he kills us all_.”

Thank god Fury doesn’t listen to any of them. Not yet, anyway.

He’s also heard word that he may soon be handed to an agent even more notorious than Natasha, someone so fucking badass that Fury _respects_ him and considers him his right hand man. He’s heard all the crazy, _scary_ shit about this right hand man, from other specialist agents to the lower ranking ones to even Betty at the mess hall: Whatever his name is - Coleman? Collins? _Colon_? - the dude is the kind of guy who can fucking kill you with a _bland look_ , if a facial expression alone can commit murder. The kind of guy who can take your eyeballs and tongue out with a _tie clip_ if you hand in your mission reports a single minute late. The kind of guy who sees an advancing army of giant, homicidal robots armed with laser eyes and guns while all he’s got is a 9mm pistol, and turns to you and says with glinting eyes, _now things are_ even, _agent_.

He doesn’t know whether to be ecstatic to get a handler like that, or crap his pants. He totally sucks at writing his mission reports, much less hand them in on time. And it’d be just his luck that this guy looks like an even uglier version of Agent Asshole-Miller (and yeah, okay, he _did_ feel a little bad when he heard Miller had been killed on a mission a few years back, but the asshole never stopped calling him ‘Ms. Barton’ every chance he got).

Not that he wants to fuck a handler, or anything. He just wants to … _fuck_. With somebody. He wants to be _fucked_ so bad by a flesh-and-blood cock.

But he can’t. No agents except Natasha know he’s a trans man. He can’t trust anyone else to not blab the truth about him to everybody the instant he drops his pants. On top of that, being gay and all, he has to find another guy who finds _men_ sexually attractive, and finding one _doesn_ _’t_ guarantee that that guy will accept _him_ as he is.

Now where the hell is he going to find a man who _will_? Where’s he going to find the goddamn _time_ to find one?

“It’s okay, I’ve got _you_ , don’t I?” he says to his superbly purple, vibrating dildo in hand while he lies naked on his back on his bed. “Come to daddy.”

Oh yeah, it’s fine, he’s got his agile fingers and his marvelous dildo and _oh yeah_ , oh, he fucking _loves_ feeling something long and wide and hard inside him and when he presses the button and makes the dildo _throb_ just like _that_ -

“Oh, _oh_ , oh yeah, that’s it, _that_ _’s it_ ,” he moans with his eyes shut as he thrusts the lubed, vibrating dildo in to the hilt, pressing the clit stimulator hard against his protruding, swollen clitoris. Like the docs told him, it’s enlarged by a few centimeters over time and _god_ , it fucking _kills_ him when he simply _touches_ it while he’s turned on. The very first time he pressed the clit stimulator to it, he’d come like a rocket, mashing his face into his pillow to smother his shouts of pleasure. Now?

He still comes as hard. Sometimes _harder_. Fuck _, yeah_.

He starts to writhe on the bed as he thrusts the dildo in and out of his pussy faster with both hands, his legs bending up, his toes curling into the sheets, his back and neck arching, his mouth falling open in a long, husky groan. The current angle is just right, striking and rubbing that spot inside him simultaneously with the clit stimulator grinding into his clit. He can feel one hell of an orgasm already cresting, feeling closer and _closer_ as he shoves the dildo in even deeper, clenching hard around it while he pants and tosses his head on the pillow.

“Oh yeah, oh yeah _oh yeah oh, ooohh_ -”

He’s pulling up his favorite fantasy now, the one that _always_ makes him come so hard and _so good_ : He sees a man with thin, dark hair in a midnight blue, pinstriped suit and a purple, paisley tie. He sees a handsome, competent, _good_ man with crinkled, blue eyes and lips that quirk up in a not-smile that he knows somehow is a smile solely for him. He doesn’t know who this man is, but the man touches him exactly how he loves it, kissing him all over from head to toe like he’s something of infinite value, like he’s everything this man needs. The man tells him how gorgeous he is, just the way he is. The man tells him that he loves him in the most sublime voice, that he’s so damn in _love_ with him as he thrusts deep and hard into his wet, tight pussy, tells him he’ll never leave him behind, never leave him, _never_ -

 _Soon, little one, you will find each other in this tiny, momentary world_.

Clint rolls onto his chest and knees just in time to scream into his pillow as he comes and comes and _comes_ , convulsing around the dildo inside him, hips bucking. It feels like heaven, like he’s going to fall apart into billions and billions of individual atoms and just float away into the ether in pure bliss. He thinks maybe he cried a bit at the peak, at the vision of that handsome, competent, _good_ man smiling down at him with those beautiful eyes, telling him how _happy_ he is to have finally found him.

Wouldn’t it be something, he thinks to himself after removing the dildo and cleaning himself up in the bathroom on shaky legs, if that man is real? Real, and searching for him too, somewhere out there in this great, enduring world?

Wouldn’t it be _something_ if that man is right here on the Helicarrier, waiting to meet him too?

Clint smiles to himself as he falls asleep under the blankets, his lips bowing up for a second. It’s a nice dream. It’s probably as likely to come true as him getting married to that man and popping out their baby, but it’s a really nice dream. There’s no harm in holding on to it.

In the morning, Agent Sitwell comes up to him in the mess hall with a tray of breakfast to inform him that his new handler is back on the Helicarrier but doesn’t know yet that he’s been assigned to him.

“I’ll take you to his office once we’re done eating, all right?”

“Sure,” Clint says with a shrug as he munches on a banana muffin. “What’s his name, anyway?”

Sitwell grins at him and pushes a pair of steel spectacles up a wide nose.

“A select few people get to call him Cheese.”

“ _Cheese_? Really?”

“Yep,” Sitwell says, shoveling a spoonful of cornflakes with milk into his mouth, still smiling.

“Should I be worried here, Jasper? Am I meeting a _mouse_ or something?”

Sitwell just snickers, but gives him a friendly smack on the bicep later as they head up several levels to the office and administrative floors.

“I can tell you this much, Barton,” Sitwell murmurs as he knocks on the partially open door of one of the many offices on the floor. “Phil may be quiet as one, but he is _no_ mouse. You mark my words on that.”

And then, Clint Barton meets Phillip J. Coulson for the first time.

 


	2. Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After reviewing the story again and more editing, I've decided to divide the story in four parts instead of three. So for readers who aren't interested in the pregnancy/birth/baby plots of the story, parts I and II make up the completed story for you! 
> 
> And yes, please do let me know if I've screwed up in any way with trans-related issues, terminology, etc. I'm all for improving the story in regards to this.
> 
> On to the spoilerish stuff:
> 
> The only reason the 'graphic depictions of violence' tag is now there is due to the re-telling of Loki's stabbing of Coulson in this story, just in case. 
> 
> There is a brief moment in a flashback scene with Natasha and Clint in which Clint manifests some serious self-loathing as a result of past abuse over being trans. I am unsure if I should add a transphobia tag or not for this. If you feel I should, feel free to let me know.

**II.**

 

When Coulson awakens this morning, he sits on the side of his bed and gazes out the reinforced, plexiglass window with gentle eyes at the clusters of clouds that pass by, at the sunshine that cascades into his quarters on board the Helicarrier. There is something in the left side of his chest that feels as radiant as that sunshine. He can’t explain why, but he has no reason to deny the feeling. It’s a good feeling. A rare feeling these days that he would be remiss to not bask in.

He’s been away from the Helicarrier for years now, jumping from one SHIELD base to another on land to train and lead numerous crews of SHIELD agents through diverse missions that have taken him all over the world. The last one, in Budapest, had been a major clusterfuck of a mission. He’d lost two agents and almost gotten killed himself, if it hadn’t been for the Black Widow whose swift reflexes saved him from death by exploded head via machine gun. He likes his head where it is and in its current, healthy state, thank you very much.

 _I need a break, Nick,_ he’d said to the director of SHIELD. Nick Fury, still his best friend he’d formerly known as Marcus Johnson, although now less one eye with an intimidating eye patch over where it used to be, and a hell lot more black leather. (He’d personally blown up the terrorist bastard who gouged out Nick’s eye with C-4 explosives and still doesn’t regret it, not one bit.)

 _Okay, Cheese_ , Nick had simply said, _come back to the mother ship. And good job._

When Nick roars expletive-laden reprimands at his agents, they know that he means them and that they deserve them. When Nick gives concise, straightforward praise, they know that he means them too, and that they deserve them.

 _Got a new assignment for you, an_ interesting _one,_ Nick had said to him later via the secure video comm panel in his room, minutes after he settled in. _Wish I could be there to oversee the introductions but, motherfucking snakes on a motherfucking plane, and I gotta deal with that shit. Go figure_.

He hasn’t seen Nick in person for some time, but such is the nature of their occupation that they’ve willingly embraced. Top-level spies don’t lead the ordinary lives of ordinary folks. Ordinary stopped being a part of his vocabulary decades ago, when he was just a boy and tried to kiss Josh Harris on their school playground. (He’d run into Josh nine years ago, when he went back to Manitowoc for his mother’s funeral. Josh hadn’t remembered the kiss at all. Gave his condolences, then told him about his wife Ruth and their four rascals for kids. He supposes the kiss exists only in his mind now.)

Nick had also said that Sitwell will be going over to his office - still the same old one he left behind years ago - later this morning with his new asset, which is fine with him. He’s yet to have the time to read the files on his new asset, having boarded the Helicarrier late last night. The files are also in his office, which means he’ll have to get off his ass and be there before Sitwell and the asset do.

“Slave driver,” he mutters, his lips quirked up as he thinks of Nick somewhere out there wrestling with boa constrictors and cobras and pythons on a commercial plane. It’d be just like Nick to conceal the fact that he has superhuman hearing and that he’s heard what he just said, snickering away while smashing snake heads between his fists. And if Nick _did_ have superhuman hearing and heard what he just said, he knows Nick would just say, _well, Phil, you_ _’re the dumbass who said yes to me on that bombed Kuwait airfield_.

He still will, no matter how many times Nick asks him. He always will.

Coulson gets off the bed in black boxer briefs and nothing else, and saunters to the bathroom for his morning ablutions. Then he goes to the closet next to the bed. He doesn’t have to glance at the full-length mirror of the closet to know he looks good for his age, still lean and muscular like his Ranger days, with a few more scars now. Damn good, as more than a few SHIELD employees have apparently whispered down the gossip vine about him. He’s casually dated some over the years, but never other handlers or agents, only personnel from the administration departments. Never hidden his bisexuality either in his time with SHIELD, which has curiously _increased_ his attractiveness to other SHIELD members. He’d been so certain that it would be a turn-off. At least, a bigger turn-off than his receding, thinning hair.

 _Well, son, you can_ _’t be_ totally _perfect_ , he knows Dad would say with that slight, fond smile, if Dad was still alive. _The universe would implode if you were, and I like having it around a little longer_.

Damn, he misses Mom and Dad so much sometimes. They lived long, content lives, raised him into the man he is today, and never asked for more than he was willing to give. Like them for him, he was willing to give all if it was in his power to do so. Dad had been first to pass away, peacefully in his sleep. Mom had passed away just a year later, also peacefully in her sleep while he was on a mission in Kunming, China. He’d wept quietly in his childhood bedroom after Mom’s funeral was over, when he was packing up what was left in the house, feeling more alone than he’d ever felt in his life.

Sometimes, more times than not, he still feels alone like that. Even when he’s surrounded by thousands of other SHIELD employees, when Nick drags him back to the Fury family home (in an undisclosed location) for Christmas with his wife and two daughters as badass and fearsome as their father. (They call him Uncle Phil and give him bear hugs, every time.)

Still, he’s got a job to do, a top-level agent he has to be. And every top-level agent has a duty to look their finest and most professional, especially on their first day back on the Helicarrier.

“Okay, let’s see what we got,” he murmurs as he browses through the collection of suits in the closet.

He starts to reach for his customary dark gray suit on the left side of the closet. When his hand is inches away from the blazer’s shoulder, he halts, frowning to himself. No … no, not dark gray today. Not gray. It doesn’t feel right. He withdraws his hand and glances at the black suits gathered in the middle of the closet. He also frowns at them, pressing his lips together. No, black doesn’t feel right either. Maybe _blue_ is more apt.

He feels a strange yet _right_ sense of choice when his hand alights on a midnight blue suit tucked between a black suit and a navy blue one. It’s striped as well with a lighter blue. He doesn’t recall the last time he wore it, but … he likes it. Today, he likes it very much.

 _That_ _’s the one, darling_ , he suddenly hears (or at least he _thinks_ he hears), as if it is a tender whisper from far, far away in a place beyond mere description. He blinks, disoriented for a moment. Then he shakes his head once, smiling to himself. His imagination really gets the better of him sometimes.

“You’re it,” he says to himself, taking the suit out of the closet.

His next dilemma emerges as he is choosing a tie to go with the suit. He has a white dress shirt and the suit pants on while he browses through a drawer of ties, and he frowns at them, dissatisfied with what, on any other day, he would have been fine with wearing. The light blue one? No. The brown one? No, not that either. The _red_ one? No.

Again, that strange yet _so right_ sense of choice returns when he comes across a purple, paisley tie. Purple is rarely his choice of color for a tie. A _paisley_ one too? He actually can’t recall purchasing this tie. Or this suit. And yet … here they are in his closet, waiting for him to put them on.

Here they are, feeling so _right_ on him, as he stands in front of the full-length mirror and studies himself from head to toe. All his suits are tailored, but this one, _this_ one fits him like a second skin, like something he alone has been ordained to wear on this very day. The tie glimmers in sunlight, as if it is its own star, or a congregation of ever-swirling auroras upon his chest. He can’t explain why, but he just _knows_ he has to wear this particular suit and this particular tie today.

In the mirror, he sees his whole face beam with a soft smile. He pats the tie down and strokes its silky surface. He tugs on the center front of his blazer with both hands.

Yes, he just knows that something tremendous, something _wonderful_ is going to happen today.

Coulson is greeted good morning by fellow agents as he proceeds to the mess hall to grab some breakfast, then to his office eight levels up on foot and via elevator. He returns their greetings, sensing their eyes following him as he passes, as if they’re suddenly intrigued by his face and presence. He isn’t quite sure what to make of it. Has he been away from the Helicarrier for that long? Did he miss a spot on his jaw when he shaved earlier? Has he chosen his suit and tie wrongly after all?

Or do they, like him, somehow harbor the same anticipation of something so tremendous, so wonderful that he can face whole armies of soldiers, face the whole world, even _death_ for it? And see it upon his face?

Whatever it is, he knows he’s going to find out soon. Very soon.

He can’t quite help the very faint sigh of relief when he arrives at his office and almost shuts the door behind him, leaving a small gap. The room appears just like he remembers it: His desk and its computer set are still where they are in front of rectangular, reinforced plexiglass windows, along with the ceiling-to-floor book shelf perpendicular to the desk and against the wall. The three steel cabinets jam-packed with reports and files are still arranged in a row against the wall opposite of the book shelf. Next to the cabinets is his one hedonistic piece of furniture, a densely cushioned, near-black couch, long enough for him to nap on if he ever requires one. He swears, though, that when sunlight dapples itself across its velvety surface sometimes, the black appears more like purple. He can’t recall why he’d purchased it. It’d just seemed … right.

He walks over to his desk upon which there is an impressive stack of files. If these files _all_ belong to his new asset, well, Nick was definitely not kidding about his new assignment being _interesting_.

He unbuttons his blazer and sits down behind his desk. He picks up the topmost folder from the stack. He’s about to flip it open when he hears footsteps approaching his door, two sets of them. He gazes at the door, his right hand on top of the folder he’d taken. He buttons up his blazer again as he stands, as the footsteps halt in front of his door and he hears Sitwell knocking on said door while speaking softly to someone.

“… Phil may be quiet as one, but he is _no_ mouse. You mark my words on that.”

“Come in,” Coulson says, his eyes focused on the two men who stride into his office.

Sitwell is in a tailored suit too, although a more conventional warm gray one with a burgundy tie. Sitwell grins at him, a toothy one that says, _good to see you back, my man_. Coulson nods at him in greeting, his eyes warm. Sitwell is an efficient and steadfast agent, and he’s never had issues with him, professionally or personally. They’ve had meals together in the mess hall often enough, discussed work woes about wayward agents, volatile handlers and missions going to shit and then some. He’s unsurprised that Nick had appointed Sitwell to accompany his new asset to his office.

As he turns his head to look at the other man, he swears that he hears the inhalations of delight and excitement of a perpetuity of stars and planets and nebulae above him, which is bizarre because he’s very sure that such things don’t actually _breathe_. He swears that they’re clambering and clamoring into their entrusted seats in the universe for a most fantastic, once-in-an-eternity show. An enraptured, transcendent audience, ascertaining that everything is finally fitting where and when they should be as he finally, _finally_ arrives at the place he’s been destined to be from the moment he was born.

Everything else in existence fades away as Coulson gazes upon the blond, blue-eyed, exquisite man who stands before him. His chest swells with an inhalation of wonder, of reverence as he is granted the honor of canvassing this man - his asset, his _new asset_! - with his eyes from head to toe. The man is the same height as he is. The man’s spiky, golden hair is aglow in the sunshine streaming in through the windows, as are those big, blue eyes so wide while gazing back with such fervor. He wants to trace with his fingertips the length of that prominent, charming nose. He wants to press the pads of his fingers upon those soft yet masculine lips, to caress the light, five o’clock beard shadow that accentuates sharp cheekbones and a sculpted jaw. He wants to raise those gloved hands - the hands of an _archer_ \- to his lips, and never let them go. He wants so _much_ to run his hands down those sinewy, strapping arms and their veins exhibited by a sleeveless, black tactical suit that molds to an athletic, sturdy torso and long, lean legs.

He wants. Oh, he _wants_ , like nothing else before.

 _It'_ _s you_ , that thing in the left side of his chest sings, brilliant as morning sunlight after the longest, dark storm. _It_ _’s you. My tremendous, wonderful you._

“Oh,” he breathes out, feeling weak-kneed, feeling as if the floor has fallen away from beneath his feet when he hears the same sound coming from the other man’s mouth at the same time.

He thinks that maybe all the stars and the planets and nebulae are in perfect alignment in this very moment in Time, just for this exquisite man. He thinks that maybe they’re all cheering right now, releasing their universe-shaking laudation with supernovas and the collapse of stellar nurseries and the whirling of dust grains around protostars. He thinks that maybe he’s already falling head over heels in love, that he’s never going to walk on land again and soar forever until he reaches the Universe That Was Before. He thinks that maybe, just maybe, if he is fortunate enough and gods-that-are-not-gods he doesn’t believe in are listening to him right now, this blond, blue-eyed, _exquisite_ man feels exactly the same way about him.

“Agent Barton,” Sitwell says as if from so very far away, unaware of being a part of this historic, inestimable event, “meet Agent Phil Coulson, your new handler. Phil, meet Agent Clint Barton, your new asset.”

 _Clint_ , that thing in the left side of Coulson’s chest sings, _your name is Clint_.

Clint is staring at him like he is at Clint, scrutinizing his face as if everything else in existence has faded away. Clint looks stunned, as if a deluge of everything he’s never expected has struck him like a towering wave, wiping out the floor from beneath his feet. Clint is speechless like he is.

“Uh … you two _know_ each other?” Sitwell asks from so very, very far away, after an eon.

“No,” Clint says, quietly, huskily and Coulson almost has to shut his eyes from hearing Clint’s voice for the first time, the glorious voice of a lark.

“Not yet,” he says, as quietly, huskily, and he sees Clint’s eyelids flicker for an instant, as if Clint almost had to shut his eyes from hearing _his_ voice.

His right arm lifts on its own volition, his open hand an offer for Clint to take, to hold. Without looking away from his eyes, Clint takes one step forward, then another. Then another, and then Clint’s hand is reaching for his over his desk with a solid grip, the grip of a trustworthy man.

And he swears, he _swears_ that when their skin touch for the very first time, when their fingers curl around each other’s and become one, he hears a tender whisper from far, far away in a place beyond mere description.

 _At last, my darlings, at last_.

Clint doesn’t let go of his hand. Neither does he let go of Clint’s.

He has no idea how long he grasps it, nor does he care. He gazes on with fascination at Clint’s face like Clint gazes on at his, as Sitwell says from so very, _very_ far away, “Oooo _kay_. I’m … gonna leave you two alone now. In this room. The two of you. Alone. Now.”

He doesn’t notice Sitwell leaving the office with a broad grin (although he’ll certainly notice the upsurge of audacious gossip down the vine about him and Clint in the months to come). The slam of the door closing, however, is akin to the smarting snap of a stretched rubber band against delicate skin. He and Clint jolt in unison at the sound, their eyes going wide and their faces heating up. They withdraw their hands at the same time, a beetroot-red Clint clutching his gloved hands against that flat belly and inadvertently flaunting those tempting arms, and he tugging at the center front of his blazer excessively, hoping he isn’t as red in the face (and probably faring worse).

Coulson clears his throat. Tugs at the center front of his blazer one more time.

“Please have a seat, Agent Barton,” he says when he’s relatively sure he doesn’t sound hoarse and madly, deeply in love. He longs to call Clint by his first name, but he can’t. He longs to hear Clint call him by his first name, too, but Clint can’t. Not yet. Not for a while yet.

Still flushed, Clint sits down gracefully on one of the chairs in front of his desk. They gaze at each other once more after he’s sat down too. They can’t seem to stop looking at each other, as if afraid that one blink will cause the other to disappear like a dream. This close up, Coulson can see the flecks of silver in Clint’s blue eyes, see the sincerity and gravitation in them. It would be too short a time, he thinks, if he can look into those beautiful eyes for the rest of his life.

He clears his throat a second time. Rests his forearms and hands on top of the desk, on top of that folder he’d picked minutes ago. (Was it just minutes? It feels like a millennium, like an entirely different life ago.)

“Tell me about yourself.”

He is _this_ close to kicking himself hard under his desk after the words fly out his traitorous mouth. _This is_ not _a date_ , he wants to bellow at his equally traitorous brain, _snap out of it_!

Clint is adorably red in the face again, glancing away, those soft lips quivering for a few seconds in an attempt to not smile. Then Clint is gazing at him once more, eyes crinkled and warm as the sunshine bathing them.

“I like your tie, sir. It’s very nice.”

Coulson blinks at that, at Clint’s guileless tone. Oh. Huh. Clint … actually means it.

He glances down at his purple, paisley tie. He touches it with his right hand, stroking its silky, fine surface.

“Thank you. I quite like it, myself,” he replies, making a mental note to wear it more often and purchase another five as soon as possible. Maybe ten, in a variety of purple shades and designs.

He clears his throat yet again. Steeples his fingers, and says, “I’m sorry. I meant to say just now, I only boarded the Helicarrier last night and haven’t had the chance to go through your files yet. Since you’re here, we might as well go through them together.”

Clint’s eyes crinkle even more.

“Sure, no problem, sir. It’s just …” Clint glances at the admittedly intimidating stack of files and grimaces. “It might take a while.”

Coulson lets his lips quirk up, just a bit. He isn’t sure why Clint’s eyes widen at that. Does it look weird? Does he look weird when he smiles? He doesn’t want Clint to think he looks weird.

“It’s fine. I’ve got time.”

 _For you,_ that pesky, stubborn thing in the left side of his chest sings. _For you, certainly for you_.

He is so damn close, too, to smacking himself on the chest and making that pesky, stubborn, _singing_ thing in there shut up. He can’t risk it colluding with his mouth and making him say the same things _aloud_.

“Sir?”

“Yes, Agent Barton?”

Clint is glancing at his couch. Clint looks back at him and points at it and asks, “Sir, is your couch _purple_?”

It’s on the tip of his tongue to say that it isn’t, that it’s near-black and nowhere near purple.

“Yes,” he says instead, assuredly. “Yes, it’s purple.”

Clint stares at him for a minute, as if Clint can’t believe what he’s just said.

“Is there something wrong with it?”

“Oh, no. It’s just … I _love_ purple,” Clint murmurs, grinning widely at him, his whole face luminous and breathtaking, and right then and there, Coulson thinks, _I love you, I love purple now and I love you_.

And right then and there, high up, higher than the stars and the planets and nebulae can ever hope to be, higher than heaven itself, Desire is a cloned army of a million helium flashes, erupting with applause in unison and enlightening the skies of heaven with blue and purple and white. Despair, a transparent and cracked egg forged from the tears of an extinct, telepathic, hexapedal race of terrestrials, snorts derisively but sticks around anyway because they’re bored and like hanging out with Desire. Dream is nowhere to be seen, but known only to Destiny, they’re there, watching as well, knowing that where love and desire are, despair is often never far behind.

 

<<< >>>

 

When Clint falls in love, he falls in love _hard_. Okay, yeah, he’s never fallen in love with anyone before meeting Coulson, but if his turbulent feelings for his handler are anything to go by, he falls _so_ _fucking hard_ that he should be terrified. (Which he isn’t, which is terrifying in itself.)

When he went with Sitwell to Coulson’s office months ago, he’d expected to meet some unassuming, _mousy_ guy despite all the rumors he’d heard. He hadn’t expected the gorgeous, sophisticated _sex god_ that stood there with squared shoulders and a head held high, in that dazzling midnight blue, striped suit and _purple_ , paisley tie. (The guy even has a _purple couch_!) His brain had skipped like a broken record and skidded to a standstill when Coulson smiled that not-smile at him, when it sank in that Coulson, his _new handler_ , is the very man he’s seen and _loved_ so many times in his dreams and fantasies. (And holy fuck, have his jerking off sessions tripled since meeting Coulson in the flesh. His dildo may as well be an extension of his arm at this rate.)

 _He_ _’s real_ , that fragile yet persevering thing in the left side of his chest sings. _His name is Phillip J. Coulson, and_ _he_ _’s real, he’s real_.

“You got it _so_ bad, Barton,” he murmurs to himself, gazing up with half-lidded, gleaming eyes at the ceiling above his bed in his quarters, one hand pressed over that singing thing in his bare chest.

Oh, when he’d stood there in that office and stared at Coulson while Coulson stared back, he’d almost kicked himself in the leg to check if he was dreaming. There was a halo of light around Coulson from the sunshine streaming in through the windows behind him, which really didn’t help to make Clint think about Coulson as anything other than ‘heavenly’ and ‘oh my god’ and ‘ _take me now, you handsome bastard_ ’. And Coulson’s _voice_ -

Clint shuts his eyes and nibbles on his lower lip.

 _Oh_ _man_ , he has never heard a voice as sexy as Coulson’s. _Never_. It’s like … _honey_ , like the thickest, _sweetest_ honey that goes down your throat so _good_ and seeps into every cell in your body and makes you want to _fly_. He thinks he can listen to Coulson talk about everything and anything for the rest of his life, read the goddamn phone book even, from A to Z and back. Listen to Coulson say, “Good morning, Barton,” when they meet for breakfast in the mess hall or in Coulson’s office. Listen to Coulson say, “Good night, Barton,” when they retire to their individual quarters after a long day of work and training. Listen to Coulson say, “Good job, Barton,” when a mission is accomplished and everyone’s still alive and kicking, those words worth a thousand gold stars on his records.

He thinks he can listen to Coulson say, “I love you, Clint,” to him forever, if he’s ever lucky enough. He thinks, if he’s ever lucky enough and gods-that-are-not-gods he doesn’t believe in are listening to him right now, that maybe one day, Coulson will feel exactly the same way about him like he does about Coulson.

But then … he’s Clint Barton, screwed over by the universe from the second he was born. Born into the wrong body. Born into a family that either hated him or neglected him or turned a blind eye to his pleading to call him Clint, not Clio, _not Clio_. Chucked into an orphanage when Ma and Pop died in that car accident, chucked into a dying circus when Barney hauled him along and told him it was going to be great, _it_ _’s going to make us rich and famous, Clio, you’ll see_. Almost got killed by the Swordsman for trying to do the right thing. Almost got killed by the van that Barney leapt into, that he chased and chased and shouted at for Barney to tell him where he was going, where, _where do I find you, Barney, where_?

Always alone, in the end. Always alone, when everyone leaves him behind, eventually.

He opens his eyes again and stares at the ceiling, his smile waning. He’s so in love with Coulson, who’s worth facing a thousand Swordsmen, the whole fucking world and _gods_ for, that it hurts.

He’s so fucking in love with Coulson, his _SHIELD handler_.

And he can never be in a sexual or romantic relationship with his handler. It’s against the damn regulations. It says so in the damn handbook for agents, in black, blocky print that taunts him every time he feels masochistic and opens it up again on his SHIELD comm pad, hoping it’ll say something different this time. The rule’s there for good reasons, he gets that. He gets that a handler holds a great deal of power over their asset, that that power can be abused even in a purely professional handler-asset relationship, much less one complicated by sex. By _love_.

Oh, and there’s the fact that he’s a trans man and Coulson _doesn_ _’t know that_.

Clint rolls onto his side on his bed and curls up into a fetal position, his head nestled deep into his pillow. He’d felt hot earlier in the night and removed his t-shirt and sweatpants, but now, he feels cold and shivery. He tugs the blankets over his hunched shoulder.

By now, he’s heard the gossip about him and Coulson, that when he and Coulson met for the first time, there had been explosions. Literally. One faction of gossipers is claiming that they’d clicked like two bullets in a 9mm pistol and then gone wild at the range with guns and arrows in some kind of spontaneous bonding rite. (They were only right about him with his arrows at the range. He had so much pent-up _energy_ after meeting Coulson that he had to _release_ it somehow that didn’t involve jerking off.) Another faction is claiming is that they’d hated each other on sight, that they could only gape at each other in horror and are now only working together because everyone else’s too scared of them. (Man, does this rumor crack him up. It’s such bullshit that even Coulson chuckled when he told Coulson about it while he reclined on Coulson’s cushy purple couch that he adores.)

Then there’s another faction - the one that’s gotten _so_ close to the truth, at least in his case - that claims that when he and Coulson met, they’d instantly fallen head over heels in love with each other. That they were just _gone_ , just totally, utterly gone on each other. Joined at the hip. Inseparable, and that the _only_ reason they aren’t already fucking each other’s brains out is because of Coulson’s renowned professionalism, because of their handler-asset relationship.

Even if this particular rumor is, against all the odds in the universe, the _truth_ , that _Coulson_ is in love with _him_ too … would Coulson still feel the same after knowing what he’s like _down there_?

No, Coulson has no idea he’s a trans man, despite them having been on four missions together now. Two of those missions had taken them out of the States and into Kolkata in India and Ankara in Turkey, and forced them into sharing a room for at least four nights, one of them in a room with just one queen-sized bed. That particular night had been both hell and heaven for him. Hell for knowing what it’s like to sleep in the same bed just inches away from Coulson and not touch the guy, heaven for sleeping in the same bed with Coulson and waking up on his back with Coulson’s arm across his midriff and Coulson’s head on his shoulder.

Holy _fuck_ , the amount of times he’s come with his fingers or dildo, just remembering the weight of Coulson’s muscular arm on him, the weight of Coulson’s head upon his shoulder. The comforting, earthy scent of _Coulson_ that he’d pilfered when he pressed his nose to Coulson’s hair and breathed in, just for one fleeting, beatific moment.

And that’s all he’s allowed to do, really: Fantasize while jerking off to brief, stolen moments. Hide the truth from Coulson, dream of another life where Coulson knows it and loves him anyway.

It’s so pathetic that he honestly feels like crying.

Which he did pretty much do, when Natasha discovered his lack of a flesh-and-blood cock and balls in the worst way possible, five years ago. It’d been their first mission together, in Qaqortoq, Greenland, hunting down a fugitive arms trafficker with close ties to certain dictators SHIELD was (and still is) keen to depose. His Hawkeye outfit hadn’t been developed then, and the tactical outfit plus protective gear he had on couldn’t protect him well enough from the fucking _concentrated acid_ the trafficker had lobbed at him before Natasha shot and took down the guy. He ’d ripped and slashed off with his knife whatever he could of his suit as fast as he could, praying to non-existent gods-that-are-not-gods that the acid hadn’t eaten all the way through to his underwear and _groin_.

Of course, being Clint Barton and having luck like his, the acid didn’t get to his skin. It managed to disintegrate part of his suit and underwear … and the silicone packer he’d worn in the front of his underwear. Humiliated was one hell of an understatement to describe how he felt when he realized that Natasha was staring at what was left of the packer, as it continued to melt on the floor of the remote albeit utilized, furnished warehouse they were in.

Then she’d glanced at his groin, for just one second, and then at his face, her green eyes widening slightly in comprehension.

He couldn’t even run, the lower half of his suit and _underwear_ in tatters like they were. Couldn’t keep at bay the stinging wetness that sprung to his eyes, couldn’t stop his hands from clenching into painful fists. Couldn’t stop his lower face from twinging as he gritted his teeth, as he pressed together quavering lips.

“Yeah, that’s right,” he ground out through his teeth as something restless and _dark_ boiled up inside him, as a spate of buried memories of loathing and disgust spat at him clawed their way back up and out through his quavering mouth. “I don’t have a fucking _dick_ or _balls_ and I gotta _stuff my underwear with fake ones_ , okay! I know I’m a _fucking_ _freak_! I fucking _know_ it, _okay_?!”

He was so angry at himself, even then, for the shit coming out of his mouth but he couldn’t stop it. He felt like all his walls had been torn down, that he was at the mercy of everything around him and he was being whipped so bad and it _hurt_ , he couldn’t protect himself, he couldn’t stop them and _their_ shit from getting to him, he wasn’t strong enough, he just _wasn_ _’t_ -

“ _Nyet_.” _No_. “Do _not_ call yourself that again. Do you hear me, Clint?”

Natasha was suddenly standing in front of him, firmly cupping his streaked face with both hands. She gripped his head in place when he tried to twist away, and she was so strong, she was so much stronger than him despite being nearly a head shorter than him. He stopped fighting after a while, squeezing his eyes shut when he felt her thumbs gently wipe his cheeks.

“Clint. Ptichka.” _Birdie_. “Look at me.”

When he peeled open his eyes, Natasha was gazing back at him with green, clear eyes. Green, _compassionate_ eyes.

“Are you a man?” she asked, still cupping his face, binding his gaze to hers.

He blinked a few times. Stared back with clearer, sore eyes. His hands and jaw relaxed, little by little. The restless, dark thing in him lapsed back into slumber deep within him, daunted by the blaze in Natasha’s eyes, by her kind touch.

“Yes,” he said, gritting his teeth for a different reason now. “Yes, _I am_.”

“Then that is what you are,” Natasha said plainly, undoubtedly, and then Clint had hugged her so tight and she had hugged him as tightly, and he’d thought, _I have some luck after all, to have a best friend like you_.

Dr. Langley had a field day with him when he and Natasha returned to the Helicarrier after the mission. For the first time in his life, in a choked up voice, he told another human being about the abuse - and it _was_ abuse, it was, he got that now - he’d suffered throughout his childhood and in the circus, physical, mental and emotional. There were circus folks who were good to him, yeah, but there were just as many who ridiculed and harassed him day after day for being the way he was. He thought he’d gotten over all that once he left the circus. He thought all that shit couldn’t touch him anymore.

“You are only human, Clint,” Dr. Langley had said, gazing at him with those benevolent, hazel eyes. “And you’ve kept all this inside you, all this time.”

She’d suggested that he also talk as much as he could and wanted with someone else that he trusted. A friend, who would understand what it’s like to grow up with constant fear and pain and violence, without love, and still become someone whole and good.

Natasha had shown up at his quarters with several bottles of Smirnoff the first day he saw Dr. Langley for therapy after returning from Greenland. They’d lounged on the bed and drunk themselves stupid. Well, mostly him, while blabbering everything that came to mind about being a trans man and wondering when Natasha was going to freak out and dash out of the room.

She never did. She’d simply listened, asked questions with a deference few others had given him in his life, and listened some more. And at the end of it, after another fit of stinging, wet eyes and clenched fists that Natasha had gently unfolded, she said, “Don’t forget, we’re sparring tomorrow in the gym,” and he’d smiled into her fiery hair with his eyes shut and wrapped his arms around her.

“I love you, Tasha,” he murmured to his best friend, his sister he never had.

“And I, you,” she’d replied plainly, undoubtedly, and he knew that she meant it.

He knows that she still will, should he ever ask her. He knows now how foolish he’d been to assume the worst about her in that warehouse in Qaqortoq, to have thought so _little_ of her and their friendship in that instance.

But can it be possibly that easy with Coulson, too? That Coulson will simply say, _you_ are _a man, Clint, because that is what you know you are_? Can he possibly be that _lucky_?

Clint pulls the blankets closer around his body. He sighs, staring with half-shut eyes at his hand in front of his face on the bed, at its slender fingers that no hormone treatment or drug can alter in length or width.

Even if Coulson does discover he is a trans man, they can never … _be_. That’s just how it is, if he wants Coulson to remain in his life, if he wants to listen to Coulson say good morning and good night and good job, _good job_. He has to accept that he’ll never hear Coulson say I love you, that what he has right now with Coulson, their excellent handler-asset relationship, their _friendship_ is enough.

It’s already more than he ever thought he would have. It’ll have to be enough.

It’s enough. It really is.

“Too bad I’m such a lousy liar, huh, Tasha?” he whispers as he falls asleep, thinking of Natasha who’s on a mission in Patagonia right now with the Love of his Life as her handler.

Too bad, indeed.

 

<<< >>>

 

Mere weeks after the Avengers Initiative is activated, New York City is invaded by an insane, evil goth-wannabe of a Norse god and a barbaric race of seriously, _seriously_ ugly, gray-skinned, reptilian and bio-mechanical aliens with six fingers on each hand. (Really, what’s up with that, five isn’t good enough for them?)

Clint’s scarcely gotten to know most of the other Avengers yet, apart from their names and info SHIELD’s made available in their bio files for each other. He knows Natasha, of course, and he knows of Tony Stark of Stark Industries, the ‘genius billionaire playboy philanthropist’ as Stark himself put it. Captain America is part of the team too (and holy crap, did that blow his mind when he learned that from Coulson first), looking just like he did over seventy years ago when World War II was still raging. There’s Doc Banner, a shy though friendly physicist, until he transforms into a giant, green, muscle-bound guy who’s been named the Hulk when he gets mad. (Mental note, Barton: _Don_ _’t_ piss him off.)

Then there’s Thor, a formidable giant himself with long, golden hair and an also formidable hammer that even has a name, Mjolnir. Thor, who just happens to be the brother of the insane, evil goth-wannabe, Loki, who almost kills Coulson in the underbelly of the Helicarrier.

All the Avengers are on board when Loki attacks it with a horde of brainwashed human mercenaries dragged into the war by an also brainwashed Agent Sam Bennett. From security video footage of a SHIELD base in New Mexico that Coulson and the Avengers get to review much later, Agent Bennett had been accosted there by Loki and then zapped with some alien scepter and its magical stone and turned into a mind-controlled slave for Loki. It’s creepy as hell to see the specialist agent changed from the animated, affable guy Clint knows him to be to a stranger with a frozen expression and dead eyes.

He tries his best to get through to Bennett as Bennett brawls with him in the hallway leading to the entry that’ll take him to the cell in which Thor’s become trapped. The cell had originally been designed to contain the Hulk, and he supposes R&D will go nuts knowing their cell is able to imprison a _Norse god_ too. Thor is actually in the safest spot in the Helicarrier right now, which is why he’s way more concerned for his own safety as Bennett hacks at him with a deadly tactical knife yet again with lightning speed.

“C’mon, Bennett, _you can fight it_!” he shouts as he blocks the blow with his own knife, feeling the impact all the way down to his toes. Bennett’s over half a foot taller than him, with forty pounds extra in weight. The guy’s tussled with Thor once in the gym ten floors up from here and lived to talk (and laugh) about it.

Bennett doesn’t seem to hear him at all, or even _see_ him. It isn’t just creepy, it’s _frightening_ , and he’s damn glad that it isn’t him who’s been brainwashed like this. He evades another slash. Slams his fist into Bennett’s wrist and watches the knife fly from Bennett’s hand onto the floor. Bennett doesn’t make a single noise. _He_ does, though, when Bennett abruptly lunges at him, knocks his knife away and manages to pummel him in the kidneys even through his armored Hawkeye outfit before he punches Bennett in the side of his head several times. His sides hurt like fuck, and he’s breathing hard and wincing as he stands over an unconscious Bennett spread-eagled on the floor.

“Jesus fuck. Are your fists made of _steel_ or something?” he wheezes as he kneels on the floor and presses his fingers to Bennett’s throat. He finds a strong if rapid pulse.

“B-Barton?” Bennett grunts, opening one bleary eye.

Clint grins down at him even as he’s still panting, patting Bennett on his immense chest.

“You back with us? Huh?”

“Fuck, what happened?”

Bennett is clutching at his head and groaning. Clint feels rather sorry for him, and for the inevitable shitfest the guy’s going to have to deal with after all this. Dozens of SHIELD agents have already been killed in the attack on the Helicarrier so far.

“You got brainwashed by a crazy Norse god with a magical stick.”

“The _fuck_?”

Clint huffs out a pained laugh, and says as he stands up and plucks his knife from the floor, “Yeah. I know. I gotta go, okay? Got another Norse god to rescue.”

He doesn’t look back as he sprints down the hallway and through the entry into the underbelly of the Helicarrier. He sees the cell immediately, glowing like it is in the center of the spacious chamber. He sees a wrathful Thor in it, brandishing Mjolnir, glaring at his brother who’s standing in green and gold armor in front of the control console for the cell.

And there’s Coulson with a massive gun he recognizes as a prototype from R&D, knocking out one of the brainwashed mercenaries with a blow to the back of the head.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, Coulson, _what are you doing_ ,” Clint whispers to himself, his eyes wide as he sees Coulson confidently approach Loki who’s raising his hands in the air and backing away from the console.

He sees the gun in Coulson’s hands arm itself with the glow of several orange lights in its side.

He sees Loki, _another Loki_ , materialize behind Coulson with that damn magical scepter in hand and oh shit, oh fuck, _oh fuck no_ , that’s not Loki standing in front of Coulson, that’s only a mirage and the _real_ Loki is about to -

From his hand, his knife shoots through the air as true as an arrow would from his bow, burying itself in Loki’s left eye as the scepter’s blade buries itself into Coulson’s right flank instead of his spine. His own roar drowns out Coulson’s and Loki’s twin cries of agony, drowns out Thor’s bellow of shock and fury. He sprints across open steel flooring and launches himself at Loki who’s still screaming and bleeding from his pierced eye, smacking the scepter away and seizing the handle of the knife with one hand while he fends off Loki’s frantic strikes with the other.

Behind them, the augmented glass of the cell shatters beneath the might of Mjolnir.

“Nay, Hawkeye! I beg of you, _do not kill him_!”

Loki goes down on his knees before Clint. Clint glares down at the _god_ he’s struck down, snarls at him with teeth bared, without fear. He still has his hand on the knife’s handle. All it takes is a shove, _just one_ -

“Please, shield brother. Let me be the meter of his deserved punishment,” Thor says, placing one large hand upon his left shoulder. “Tend to the Son of Coul.”

Clint blinks hard. He sucks in a breath, and just like that, the furor in him is gone and all he can think is _Coulson, Coulson, Coulson_.

Coulson, who’s sitting up against a wall with both hands over a gushing, crimson wound in his side, gazing at him with such _pride_.

“Sir,” he rasps, releasing the knife, already forgetting the two Norse gods behind him as he staggers over to Coulson. “ _Sir_.”

It’s his turn to go down on his knees, to draw Coulson close to him with one arm around Coulson’s limp shoulders, to press one hand over Coulson’s, over that horrible wound that’s bleeding out the back too. Coulson looks so pallid, like all the color and _life_ is draining away from him and leaving him a shell.

“Are you okay?” Coulson whispers, staring up at him with eyes that are beginning to glaze over.

Clint swallows hard. Presses his hand harder on Coulson’s, on the wound, and feels panic roiling in his chest when Coulson doesn’t react at all.

“I don’t know, sir,” he says, his lips quivering in a semblance of a smile. “Are _you_ going to be?”

Coulson’s lips quirk up in that appealing not-smile, and it seems to be saying, _I_ _’m sorry_ , and, _I think I_ _’m clocking out_. Coulson’s lips start to move, to perhaps say those damning words aloud, to seal his fate but Clint shakes his head, sucking both lips in as he feels his face contort against his will, as his vision blurs.

“No,” he says vehemently, pressing even harder on the wound in Coulson’s side, clutching Coulson closer to him. “ _I won_ _’t let you go_.”

A spark ignites in Coulson’s eyes at that. They widen and focus on Clint’s eyes, and if Clint doesn’t believe in the existence of gods now, he almost wants to believe that Coulson’s colorless lips move to say soundlessly, _then don_ _’t_.

Thunderous footsteps advancing towards and surrounding them drown out anything else Coulson may have said. Clint repels the gloved hands that attempt to take Coulson away from him, snarls and lashes out with fists when he’s forcibly dragged away by arms around his torso. He gets a few hits in, hears swearing and, “Barton, _Barton_ , fuck, stop it!” and, “We’re here to help!”

Then two very familiar, gloved hands are gripping his head. Two very familiar, green eyes, framed by fiery red hair, are staring into his.

“Clint. _Clint_. They’re taking him to the medical bay. Do you understand?”

He stares back at Natasha, panting, going limp with his legs bent under him on open steel flooring. He squeezes his eyes shut and nods hard. Then he opens them again when Natasha lets him go. He inhales sharply. Gathers himself as he stands up, yanking his specialist agent visage back on.

The war isn’t over yet. There’s still work to be done.

Coulson expects only the utmost professionalism and competence from him, no matter what.

Natasha nods at him.

“The Chitauri are still attacking the city,” she says, and without another word, he follows her out and up and up to a quinjet on the Helicarrier’s aircraft runways, where they join Captain America. Iron Man is already in the city with the Hulk. Neither Natasha or the Cap’s seen Thor. Or Loki.

Clint doesn’t recall much of the battle itself. He recalls shooting a fuck load of arrows at a fuck load of those ugly, _ugly_ robot-reptile-aliens. He recalls Thor joining the battle again, informing them that Loki has been _disciplined_ and shipped back to Asgard where their old man, Odin, the one-eyed king, is going to whoop his ass and ground him for about a thousand years (for real). He recalls a goddamn nuclear missile heading towards the city, and Iron Man saving the goddamn world by _clamping onto the nuclear missile and flying through a wormhole into another universe to blow up the alien mother ship_. (Stark should definitely add ‘hero’ to his list of self-recommendations, _goddamn_.)

He recalls Iron Man - _Tony_ inviting the team for shawarma after nearly suffocating to death in space, and him replying, “I gotta go back to the Helicarrier,” and, “Coulson’s hurt,” and, “I have to go.”

Natasha goes to the medical bay with him. He doesn’t realize his hands are still covered in Coulson’s blood until a nurse glances down at them and asks him if he’s injured. When he does realize it, when he sees the dried, rusty flakes clinging to his skin and nails, he says to his shaking hands, “I have to go.”

Natasha doesn’t follow him to the restroom. He doesn’t even give a fuck which one he goes into, bolting for the first toilet bowl he sees and vomiting everything in his stomach into it. It isn’t much, considering he hasn’t eaten anything since the invasion began, mostly bile. Once he’s no longer retching, he lurches to the nearest sink and removes his gloves and scrubs at his hands with soap and water, over and over and over. Coulson’s blood keeps sticking to his cuticles. It’s under his nails too.

If Clint _does_ believe in the existence of gods now, or gods-that-are-not-gods, if he isn’t as determined as he is to not break down in a damn restroom, he may have noticed that standing next to him is a very tall, six-armed, gold-skinned, humanoid being in an extremely puffy, black ball gown glittering with stars that no longer exist above heaven. Their brothers-sisters call them Death, but sometimes they’re also called The Long Sleep or The Path to Paradise or their favorite, Death Doesn’t Exist Because Reincarnation Does. For some reason, humans aren’t so spooked by them when they’re called such.

 _Hmm,_ Death says cheerfully, rolling out and skimming down an endless scroll of names, places and dates from the vast black hole in their belly. _Coulson, Coulson Coulson Coulson. Phillip J. Coulson, born on July 8th, 1964 in the Holy Family Memorial Hospital in Manitowoc, Wisconsin to Robert and Julie Coulson. Let_ _’s look for him, shall we_?

Clint, completely oblivious to the forever being next to him, sniffles and wipes his nose with the back of his hand.

 _Coulson, Coulson, Coul- oh, here he is_ , Death says as cheerfully, pointing at Coulson’s name very, very, _very_ far down the list. _Let_ _’s see when I’m going to_ meet _him_!

Death holds the scroll closer to their face, squinting at it with a golden face devoid of any features.

“I haven’t even told him I love him,” Clint whispers, staring blindly at the mirror in front of the sink. “I’m so fucking stupid.”

 _Oh no, that_ _’s not true, dear_ , Death says graciously, bending down elegantly to gaze at Clint now, their gown spiraling in waves against Clint’s legs, their scroll rolling itself back into its vast black hole. _Desire thought that you were_ very _gallant today, going to the rescue like you did for the Love of your Life_.

“What if he dies?” Clint whispers, sniffling again, his eyes red. “What if I never get the chance to tell him?”

 _Well, I_ _’m certainly not meeting him today_ , Death says as graciously, touching a tender fingertip to a tear drop at the corner of Clint’s eye. _Not today, not for a very,_ very _long time yet. I won_ _’t be meeting_ you _either for a very,_ very _long time. In fact, your friend is coming in very soon to tell you some good news. And just so you know, I won_ _’t be meeting her for a very long time yet, either_.

Death strokes Clint’s tousled, golden hair, just once.

And then the restroom’s main door opens, and Natasha walks in alone, stopping beside Clint where a certain forever being had existed mere moments ago.

“Coulson’s in the recovery room,” Natasha says, her eyes bright, resting one hand on his upper arm. “The blade missed all his major organs. He’s going to be fine.”

Clint, whose hands are now dry and clean of Coulson’s blood, of all blood, presses one of those hands over Natasha’s and nods, unable to trust his voice. She waits patiently for him to gurgle his mouth and splash his face with water.

They walk together to Coulson’s bedside, although only Clint sits in a chair there, his legs wobbly. Natasha stands beside him with one hand on its backrest, the other on his shoulder. He stares at Coulson lying so still and silent on the bed under a white sheet and dark brown blanket, bare-chested, an enormous bandage layered over the now stitched up wound in Coulson’s right flank. He stares at Coulson’s face still so handsome in its paleness from blood loss and exhaustion. He stares at Coulson’s contoured chest steadily rising and falling, at its dusting of dark curls that look and must feel so soft. He stares at Coulson’s sinewy arms, at the similar dusting of dark hair on the forearms from which thin tubes are trailing up to IV bags. He remembers the weight of Coulson’s arm upon his body, its protective cusp.

He knows that when tomorrow comes, nothing will ever be the same between him and Coulson again.

He doesn’t know exactly when Natasha leaves him alone with Coulson, only that she strokes his hair before she does, like she perhaps did in the restroom earlier. He doesn’t know exactly what time it is when he lays his head on the bed next to Coulson’s hip, when he falls asleep while gazing at Coulson’s face slack in a healing slumber.

He awakens to the sensation of long, strong fingers touching his nose. To the sight of a conscious Coulson, gazing down at him with lips quirked up in that not-smile that he knows somehow is a smile solely for him.

“Sir,” he says, sitting up slowly, still feeling wobbly inside and out despite being planted on a chair for hours on end now.

Coulson doesn’t say anything. Perhaps he can’t.

“Do you want water? Lemme go get you some,” Clint mumbles, starting to stand up to reach for the nurse call button next to the bed.

Coulson’s hand upon his on the bed halts him immediately. He sits back down, all his senses abruptly and intensely focused on the contact. He swallows visibly when he turns his hand up, when Coulson still doesn’t remove his hand and leaves it there on top of his, palm to palm.

“Sir. Coulson.” He swallows again, then looks the other man in the eye, in those lovely blue eyes that have never once gazed at him in enmity. Only kindness. Respect. And affection he wishes runs as deep and everlasting as his for Coulson. “I need to tell you something. You might - you might not wanna be around me anymore after this. But I gotta tell you.”

Coulson is still quiet, still gazing at him with such warm, ingenuous eyes. It gives him the courage to continue, to say with what he hopes isn’t a tremulous voice, “I love you. I’m so damn in love with you that I dream about you all the time, even though I see you almost every day. I get all shaky just listening to you _talk_ , to your _voice_ , ya know that? I get all shaky and out of control and I just go all _stupid_ in the _heart_ the moment I see you, and man,” he huffs out a self-deprecating laugh, “I oughta receive some kinda award or something for Worst Liar About My Feelings For My Handler. I kept telling myself that being co-workers, being _friends_ with you was enough, but it _isn_ _’t_. It isn't. It never will be. I love you so much. I think I’ve been in love with you since the day we met. I think I’ve been in love with you since the day I was _born_.” Now he smiles self-deprecatingly, almost like a wince. “But it’d be just my luck that you aren’t gay.”

Coulson finally speaks, in a low, gentle voice that slugs him like a gunshot with three words.

“I’m not gay.”

Clint shuts his eyes at the ache that suffuses his chest, the _predictable_ ache. Of course, _of course_ it’s just his luck that Coulson isn’t gay, that Coulson’s _straight_ and can only ever care about him as a peer, a _friend_ -

“I’m not gay. I’m bisexual.”

Clint’s eyes snap open wide. He gapes at Coulson who is _still_ gazing at him with such warm, _fond_ eyes.

“I’m bisexual. That means I like cock just as much as I like vagina. I like men just like I like women too. Cocks and vaginas are great. Or is vaginae? Vaginae sounds weird. Like a vegetable instead of a very nice, wondrous part of a human being. Vaginas sounds better. Do you think vaginas sounds better?”

Clint’s lips begin to tremor, but it isn’t from sorrow. Quite the opposite. Oh god, Coulson’s obviously doped up on some good drugs after getting _stabbed through the body with a magical scepter_. Coulson’s so doped up that his mouth’s going as fast as the steep dive of a peregrine falcon on a hunt and he’s just saying whatever comes to mind.

It’s so unlike the SHIELD handler Clint knows who usually has an iron fist around his thoughts and selects his words so conscientiously. It’s beyond _adorable_.

“Yeah, I do think vaginas sounds better than vaginae, too,” he replies, losing the battle with his lips that bow up into a smile of amusement and love, so much love for this sweet, competent, _good_ man.

His heart almost bursts when Coulson sticks out his lower lip in a doleful pout and asks in a small voice, “Do you think Captain America will still love me if he knows I like cock just as much as vagina?”

He entwines his fingers with Coulson’s. His heart leaps inside his chest when Coulson tightens those long, strong fingers around his.

“He’d be a fucking idiot not to, sir.”

The pout disappears, only to be replaced by an even more fetching expression. Coulson’s eyes seem to enlarge with adoration while Coulson’s lips curve up in an angelic, closed-lip smile.

“Even if I wasn’t bisexual, even if I was straight, I’d still go gay for you. Gay. Homo. Homosexual. Hawkeye-sexual. Clint Barton-sexual. I’ll be whatever you want me to be, as long as I can be with you.”

Clint should feel so damn stupid for the boulder that’s suddenly lodged itself in his throat, at the stinging wetness over his eyes. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t, because he isn’t dreaming, he’s awake and _Coulson is holding his hand_.

“I just want you to be _you_ , sir,” he rasps, blinking rapidly. “I love you just the way you are.”

Coulson stares at him with parted lips for a minute, as if dumbstruck. Then Coulson tugs on his hand, zealously and delightedly like a child, until he gets off the chair and sits on the side of the bed so they’re closer, so much closer.

“You love me?” Coulson asks, also child-like, with large, dazzled eyes.

Coulson is still grasping his hand, still gazing up at him as if Coulson can’t take his eyes off him. He gives Coulson’s hand a squeeze, his lips tremoring into a smile again.

“Yeah. I love you,” he says, pushing every ounce of that love into his declaration, into his eyes.

“You _love_ me?” Coulson asks again, softly, awe imbued in each word.

Clint’s smile expands into a grin with crinkled, glistening eyes.

“Yeah, I _love_ you, Coulson,” he says as softly, humbled by that awe.

“I _love_ you, _Phil_.”

Clint’s brow creases, just a little, at that.

“What?”

“Phil. My name is Phil.”

Once more, Clint’s smile returns in full force. He can’t stop the chuckle that rises out of his chest and out past his smile.

“Hi, Phil. My name is Clint.”

“Hi, Clint. I love you,” Coulson says so plainly, so _undoubtedly_ that that stupid boulder is back in his throat, bigger than ever, making his breath catch in his lungs, making his eyes burn. He still has one foot on the floor but the floor may as well be gone, swept away from beneath him, and he may as well never walk on land again and soar forever, higher than the sun, higher than the stars and the planets and nebulae, higher than heaven itself and still go on.

He thinks that maybe, he really is fortunate enough to have gods-that-are-not-gods listen to him at all, for things to be so easy with Coulson. With _Phil_.

He thinks that maybe, just maybe, he really _can_ have more than he thinks he deserves.

“I heard the stars and the planets and nebulae cheer when you walked into my life. I felt them move into perfect alignment in the skies, just for you, and I felt them explode into supernovas and collapse into new worlds of life and I think I fell in love with you the moment I looked at you and you looked back at me. I looked at you and I thought, ‘it’s you, everything I’ve ever needed and never thought I needed, it’s you,’” Coulson murmurs, as resonant and profound as those very stars and planets and nebulae, lips quirked into a smile that Clint has never seen before. A smile that’s truly his, his alone. “My tremendous, wonderful you.”

Clint is damn glad that Coulson’s eyelids flutter shut for an minute then, glad for the opportunity to roughly swipe at his wet face before he seriously embarrasses himself. It sounds so good, everything Coulson’s said. It sounds too good to be true, and once upon a time, he would have assumed there has to be a catch somewhere, there _has_ to be.

But that was before he met Phillip J. Coulson. That was before he finally found this tremendous, wonderful, _incredible_ human being, who loves him in return.

Coulson’s eyelids are flickering with lethargy. He looks so boyish, so innocent that Clint gives in at last, _at last_ , to the allurement of touching Coulson’s bristly cheek, caressing it with his fingers, caressing Coulson’s lank hair and scalp, over and over.

Clint gives in at last to the dream-come-true of kissing Coulson on the lips, and feeling Coulson kiss him back.

Coulson’s eyes are more shut than open now, though that tender smile is there, a beacon that no sun can hope to compete with.

“You rest now, okay?” Clint whispers, caressing Coulson’s cheek one more time. “We can talk more later.”

“Okay,” Coulson whispers back, eyes closed, face luminous and breathtaking, “I love you, Clint.”

And right there and then, Clint thinks, _I love you, I love hearing you say that and I think I can listen to you say that to me forever, I love you_ , and swears he hears an eruption of deafening ovation from far, far away in a place beyond mere description, by an enraptured, transcendent audience that will tell of this most fantastic, once-in-an-eternity show for eons to come.

 

<<< >>>

 

The day Tony invites the other Avengers to shawarma, the day before Clint’s life changes forever with a river of love gushing from Coulson’s lips, is also the day Tony invites the other Avengers to live in the former Stark Tower.

“We call it the Avengers Tower now, Legolas,” Tony says to him via his new StarkPad that Tony’s given him as well as the other Avengers plus Coulson, who’s become their official liaison with SHIELD. “You got a floor of your own too. Get your ass over here before I remove all the _purple_ stuff and replace them with _retro 1950s polka-dot_.”

He’s in the Helicarrier’s medical bay waiting for Coulson to be discharged, and even before he opens mouth to reply, Tony adds, “And yes, your scary, taser and Supernanny-obsessed boyfriend can come and live here too.”

With the remarkable amenities available in the Avengers Tower, such as the _humongous_ gym and the _outstanding_ archery range just for him (which brought a tear to his eye just looking at photos of it, no lie) _and_ the private medical wing for the team, it seems the most logical decision to move in posthaste to aid Coulson’s recovery outside of the Helicarrier. Like Tony mentioned, he has an _entire floor_ to himself, an extravagant apartment with at least four bedrooms, three bathrooms outfitted with generous bathtubs and hi-tech, unbelievable showers, a living room with ceiling-to-floor windows overlooking midtown Manhattan, an open plan kitchen and has he talked about the _unbelievable showers_ yet?

“Yes, Clint. You have,” Coulson says that evening with Clint’s arm around his lower back and Clint’s hand on his hip, as they board the quinjet that’ll take them to the Avengers Tower. “If I knew all it took to get your attention was an efficient shower with multiple settings, I would have become a plumber.”

This guy, sometimes, really. He still can’t believe that Coulson is his _boyfriend_. That the other Avengers _know_ it and are _totally fine with it_.

When Natasha saw them cuddling one afternoon on Coulson’s bed in the medical bay, she had simply said, “Finally. Vy dya duraka.” _You two fools_. And then smiled at them with her eyes while Clint grinned back.

When Tony, Steve and Bruce had paid Coulson a surprise visit and saw Coulson napping against Clint’s chest, Tony had made exaggerated gagging noises while ranting about getting ‘instant killer diabetes’ and Steve had gone redder than a strawberry but sincerely offered his congratulations (and not-so-subtly smacked Tony on the head, which helped Clint to really get why Coulson’s such a fanboy about the guy). Bruce had offered congratulations too, but just smiled instead of blushing like Steve.

Thor didn’t even blink when he visited and caught Clint feeding Coulson a bowl of chicken noodles (behind the nurses’ backs).

“It is as common for men to love men and women to love women as it is for men to love women in Asgard,” Thor had said with a furrowed brow. “Is it not so here in Midgard?”

Coulson had spent that morning genially explaining as much as he could to Thor sitting in a chair at his bedside about discrimination against lesbian, gay, bisexual, trans*, pansexual, demisexual, queer, asexual and aromantic people, and the ongoing campaigns around the world for their rights. Like Thor, Clint had been mesmerized by Coulson’s eloquence and erudition, sitting on the opposite side of the bed from Thor with Coulson between them. He’d been humbled by how much Coulson knew about LGBTQA matters, by how little _he_ still knew despite being a trans man.

And the thing is, he has yet to tell Coulson that he is one. He’s _terrified_ about doing so.

After arriving at the Tower and seeing a tired, drowsy Coulson to bed in the master bedroom ( _their_ bedroom now!) with a kiss on the forehead, in a white tank top and dark purple sweatpants, he rushes to Natasha’s apartment two floors down via the elevator. She’s reading a book in the living room, garbed in a comfy, beige sweater and jeans, lazing on a midnight black couch under an arching, steel lamp that illuminates her fair face and tied, red hair.

“Tasha,” he says as he perches on another midnight black couch perpendicular to Natasha’s with his legs folded to his chest and his arms around his shins, “I still haven’t told him.”

Natasha doesn’t even glance away from her book.

“Then tell him,” she says, as if it’s so simple.

“It’s _not_ so simple!” he says, sitting up straight, his arms still around his legs. “I mean, it’s one thing to have knowledge about stuff, it’s another to -to _know_ stuff!”

“And?” she asks, reading on.

“I’m just saying, what happens if he’s - if he’s okay knowing _about_ trans people but _not_ okay _knowing_ a trans man? Ya know, in the _biblical sense_?”

In hindsight, days from now, he’ll totally get why he deserves the narrow-eyed, unsympathetic look from her.

“It’s _possible_!” he says, high-pitched with something akin to panic, throwing his hands up in the air in frustration.

She goes back to reading her book. She flips a page.

“Have you already forgotten what he’s said to you?”

Clint hugs his legs to his chest again, looking down at the blood-red, fluffy rug under a rectangular, glass coffee table.

“No … no, of course not,” he answers in a small voice, his face softening as the memory of Coulson’s earnest confession in the medical bay glides back to the forefront of his mind. Just thinking about it still makes the thing in the left side of his chest sing with a celestial and eternal song, still makes him smile and do a figurative hop and heel click.

Natasha flips another page.

“But …” He digs his fingers into his knees. He bites his lower lip. “But he …” He jumps off the couch and starts pacing the rug-covered floor between the couch and coffee table, his arms crossed over his chest. “He was high on drugs, too! When he said all that, he didn’t know I’m …”

He trails off into an anxious silence, his steps slowing, his shoulders still tense, biting his lower lip again.

“That you are what?”

Natasha has placed her book page-down on her belly and is now giving him a pointed look.

Clint makes a face. Shrugs his shoulders, rubs at his upper arms.

“That I’m _different_.” He gestures with both hands at his groin, at the bulge created by his packer. “ _Down there_!”

“Remember Qaqortoq?”

He slows to a stop, glancing at her and feeling such warmth when he looks into her green eyes and sees only affection in them.

“Yes,” he says, in a small voice again, sitting down on the couch he’d perched on just now. “But … you’re not him. And he’s not you. I mean, I’m not gonna have sex with _you_! I’m gonna have sex with him!”

“Clint. You know that you _don_ _’t_ have to have sex with someone just because you’re in a romantic relationship with them.”

He nods several times, gazing down at his hands in his lap.

“I know that. I know. It’s just … I _want_ to. So badly. With _him_.” He knows his face is flushed from how hot it’s become. He bows his head even more, fidgeting with his hands. “We’re just making out for now, and he never touches me below the waist. He always asks me before he touches me anywhere and I just - I just love him so much for that.” A tender smile blooms across his face, then subsides into an expression of uncertainty. “But … what if he freaks out when I _do_ let him touch me below my waist? What if he says he’s fine with me being the way I am and then he freaks out anyway and - and -”

Again, he’s up and pacing the floor, repeatedly rubbing his upper arms.

“People leave, Tasha. People say nice things to get what they want and then they leave when they get it and -”

 _And there_ _’s me,_ he also wants to say, _picking up the pieces, wondering why I_ _’m not good enough, why I’m just not enough_ -

“Do you not see how he _looks_ at you?”

He halts in his tracks once more. He turns around and glances at her, worrying at his lower lip with his teeth. Then he glances at the floor, sucking his lower lip in instead.

“How?” he asks, his voice teeny.

“He looks at you as if you are _everything_ to him,” Natasha says plainly, undoubtedly, and again, that tender smile blooms across Clint’s face and his hands go motionless on his arms and his shoulders droop.

Yes. Coulson is everything to him, too.

Coulson loves him, too.

“Clint. Tell him. _Trust him_.”

 _Like you trust me, my good friend_ , her green, compassionate eyes say.

“Okay, Tasha,” he replies, gazing back at her with equally warm eyes that say, _thank you, my good friend_. “Okay.”

Clint goes back up to his apartment - to his _and_ Coulson’s apartment much calmer, much braver. When he opens the master bedroom door, he finds the bedside lamps on and Coulson already awake, sitting up in bed with his hair disheveled, rubbing his eyes with both hands. Coulson’s light blue sweater and black sweatpants are rumpled like the blankets over his legs, and the right side of the sweater has lifted up to reveal a white bandage taped to Coulson’s flank. The wound there is now just a set of two raised, red ridges - one in front and one in the back - with the sutures recently out, healing nicely. In time, they will fade in color until they join the family of other blanched scars upon Coulson’s cherished body.

“Oh, hello,” Coulson says, gazing at him now with doting eyes, as if Coulson can’t believe he’s actually there.

“Hey, you,” he says, climbing onto the bed to sit next to the other man, gazing back with equally doting eyes. “Had a good nap?”

“Yes. Where did you go?”

Coulson’s hands reach out and hover over his upper arms. He nods, then lowers his eyes and doesn’t stop the soft smile spreading across his face as Coulson strokes his arms from shoulder to wrist and back, as if Coulson is venerating every inch of them, as if Coulson can’t believe he has the honor of touching them at all. Clint relates very much to that feeling, every time he gets to touch Coulson too, to kiss Coulson’s cheeks and eyelids and nose and _lips_.

“Went to see Tasha for a bit.”

“Is she all right?”

“Yeah, she’s good. Everyone’s just relaxing after all the press conferences this week, I think. You are _so_ lucky you didn’t have to go to any of them and sit there for hours on end and be blinded by camera flashes and get asked questions, questions and _more questions_ , uuggh.”

Coulson chuckles, his eyes crinkling.

“You looked really good on TV, though,” Coulson murmurs, tapping him on the tip of his nose. “You should have seen how many times the cameras focused on you when you _flexed_ your arms.”

Clint laughs at that and rocks back from the mirth, grinning at Coulson when Coulson pulls him back by the wrists. Oh yeah, he knows his arms are _sexy_ , babe. Nobody can resist them when he’s in his Hawkeye outfit. (Except maybe the Chitauri, but they’re super ugly and evil and nobody likes them anyway.)

His grin eases into a hesitant smile that’s no less loving as he and Coulson gaze at each other’s faces.

It’s now or never, Barton. Time to leap over the edge. Time to fall. Or fly.

“What?” Coulson raises his hands to soft, dark pink lips and gives them a kiss each on the top. “What is it?”

Clint dampens his suddenly dry lower lip with his tongue.

“I … I need to tell you something about me, okay, Coulson?”

“Phil.”

Clint’s brow creases, just a bit, at that.

“What?”

“My name is Phil. And your name is Clint,” Coulson says nonchalantly, and Clint can’t stop the smile at that either, shaking his head once. They’ve known each other for almost two years now, gotten so accustomed to calling each other by their surnames (or sir, in his case) that it’s become thoroughly ingrained habit. Out there in this great, enduring world, it’ll be an advantage since they have to remain Agent Coulson and Agent Barton, SHIELD handler and asset (and Avenger) in public.

But here, in the Avengers Tower, in this apartment that’s theirs ( _theirs_ , for real!), they can be just Phil and Clint. Just two men who love and are in love with each other.

He can only hope it’ll stay that way after he tells Coulson what he has to.

“I need to tell you something about me, okay, _Phil_?”

Coulson - no, _Phil_ gives his hands each another kiss, then sits back with a stony expression. Already, Clint’s lips are threatening to tremor.

“You’re married. With kids,” Phil says, utterly deadpan.

“No,” Clint says, fighting to sustain a solemn expression and not smile.

 _But I want that_ , that fragile yet persevering, _victorious_ thing in the left side of his chest sings, _I want that so much, with you_ , and he feels his traitorous face heat up as his equally traitorous brain produces a vision of him and Phil with rings on the fourth fingers of their left hands, cuddling a happy, giggling baby between them. A rosy and chubby-cheeked baby, with Phil’s dark hair and sweet not-smile, with his mischievous eyes and belly laugh.

“You have six toes on each foot,” Phil says, utterly deadpan.

“ _No_ ,” Clint says, his traitorous lips curving up in a smile anyway.

“You are a handsome Hollywood actor who’s just pretending to be a SHIELD specialist agent,” Phil says, utterly deadpan, eyes twinkling. “And you’re here to secretly recruit me for a television show about my life as a SHIELD agent -”

“No!” Clint exclaims, letting out a mellifluous laugh. “But you got _one_ thing right, though -”

“You are a shape-shifting, homicidal bio-mechanical alien hell-bent on the conquest of Earth, but you were so astounded by my beauty and perfection that you changed your mind and thus, made me the savior of the Earth,” Phil says, utterly, _utterly_ deadpan with eyes twinkling and lips twitching, and Clint lets out another mellifluous laugh, covering his eyes with one hand for a second.

“Will you be _serious_ for a minute!” he says with mock exasperation, slapping both hands on Phil’s thighs.

When he looks at Phil’s face again, Phil has on the most impeccable deadpan face he has ever seen on any person, lips straight and eyes heavy-lidded and not a single muscle twitching. The sight of it releases a dam of laughter in him, and he topples forward until his forehead touches Phil’s tremoring chest, guffawing into it.

“You … and your stupid … _gorgeous_ face,” he sputters out eventually, sitting back and blinking tears of mirth away.

Phil stares at him for another moment with that ridiculous deadpan expression. Then, it cracks into the rarest Phil smile of all, a grin from ear to ear that takes away decades and makes a dimple appear in Phil’s cheek and his eyes sparkle.

It’s nuts how just a _smile_ like that can make Clint feel like floating and laughing and weeping at the same time.

“I’m …” he says, glancing down at his hands on his laps. He’s wringing them, like he only does when he’s really nervous and facing someone important to him and Phil … _Phil_ is as important as anyone gets.

He watches Phil’s hands cover his, watches them settle under those broad palms with their lifelines, under those long, strong fingers that have traced testimonies of love into his skin. He settles within, swathed by Phil’s warmth, by his assurance.

He raises his head and looks Phil in the eye.

“Phil, I’m a trans man,” he says, and when the world doesn’t end and Phil is still sitting there, still there, he says on, “As you can _see_ , I had top surgery done, but not … bottom surgery. I had the top done when I joined SHIELD. So I don’t -” He swallows once, still looking Phil in the eye. “I don’t have a penis and testicles. I’m not like other guys. Well, unless they’re trans like me and didn’t do bottom surgery either.”

Then to make his point as blatant as he can, he slides his hands out from under Phil’s and reaches into his sweatpants to remove his packer. He doesn’t give Phil a chance to look at it, though, and he chucks it over his shoulder and hears it land with a thud on the carpeted floor somewhere out of sight. He has to curl his fingers into the bed sheets at his sides to stop himself from obscuring his now visibly flatter groin. He aims his gaze over Phil’s left shoulder, unable to maintain eye contact anymore.

Phil doesn’t say anything to him for what feels like a million years.

The urge to rub at his upper arms, to draw his legs up, to _run_ grows with each passing second.

And then, just when he lets go of the bed sheets to do all that, Phil’s hands reach for him once more, to tenderly cup his face. To lift his head so they’re gazing at each other again.

“Is this the part where I scream and run like a bat outta hell, sweetheart?” Coulson says, utterly deadpan, eyes twinkling with so much fondness and _love_ and oh man, _oh man_ , Clint has to bite his lower lip to not grin and _cry_ like a dumbass instead. “Is this the part where you tell me you’re in love with a handsome, _magnificent_ bastard like me and you want my gorgeous, dark-haired babies?”

“ _Yes_.”

Phil blinks in surprise at his blurted out, passionate reply, which he supposes is still a far better reaction than Phil screaming and running like a bat out of hell at _knowing_ now that he actually _wants_ Phil’s babies. Oh shit, he is definitely beet-root red in the face. _Again_.

“I mean, no! I mean, _yes_! And _no_!” He slaps his palms against his temples, on top of Phil’s hands, and squeezes his eyes shut in annoyance, missing the sight of Phil’s lips quavering into a so very affectionate smile. “Yes to love and no to baby! _Gah_!”

He slaps his hands over his red face when Phil’s hands leave his head. Fucking embarrassed is a rather mild way of describing him right now.

“Hello, Earth. You can swallow me up now, thank you,” he mutters behind his hands.

He hears Phil chuckle. Then he hears Phil murmur, “Hey.”

Clint lets his hands fall to his lap. Phil’s moved nearer to him, leaning forward to touch their foreheads together.

“Hey,” Phil murmurs, softly, plainly, undoubtedly, “I’m still here.”

“Yeah. You are,” Clint whispers, his throat clogged and his belly trembling and his heart _singing_ , and he can’t help but marvel at how three words from Phil’s lips can make everything else apart from the two of them in existence fade away, make every restless, dark fear in him cower and flee from their light.

Phil leans back and gazes at his face, into his eyes.

“I meant what I said in the med bay, Clint. I love you. I fell in love with you the moment I looked at you and you looked back at me. I looked at you and I _knew_ , you’re everything I’ve ever needed and never thought I needed. I’ll be whatever you want me to be, as long as I can be with you,” Phil murmurs, and Clint knows that it’s all true.

“And I meant what I said, Phil. I just want you to be _you_. I love you just the way you are,” he murmurs back, touching Phil’s cheek with his fingertips.

“And _I_ just want _you_ to be you. I love _you_ just the way you are.”

Clint believes him. Clint _trusts_ him. He feels truly safe for the first time in a very, very long time.

 _So this is what home feels like_ , the little boy in Clint who was never loved says, the little boy who’s become a man and finally found his freedom, his peace. _This is home. I'_ _m home_.

“Just so ya know? Our first kiss in the med bay?” Clint says, touching Phil’s lips with his fingertips. “That was the first time I’ve kissed _anyone_.”

Phil’s eyes widen and stare at him for a moment.

“No,” Phil says, face impassive again.

“No?” Clint says, beginning to smile again.

“No, that wasn’t our first kiss,” Phil says, grasping the sides of his head and pulling him towards those soft, sensuous, _extraordinary_ lips. “ _This_ is.”

And then, and _then_ Phil is kissing him for the umpteenth time and yet the very first time, Phil taking a handful of his hair and pulling it just the way he likes it while licking his way into his mouth, tilting his head for a closer, _deeper_ angle, entangling their tongues and stealing his breath away. He moans into Phil’s mouth as he’s guided onto his back on the bed, as he spreads his thighs and feels Phil fit in their cusp like he’s _destined_ to be there. He squirms in Phil’s embrace, dragging in breaths through his nose whenever he can, unwilling to release Phil’s mouth from his but Phil doesn’t want to leave it and Phil’s lips and tongues are chasing his and oh god, he’s shaking, Phil’s grinding his _cock_ against him and he’s shaking and panting and if Phil keeps going, keeps rubbing hard against his _clit_ like that, he … he -

His lips part from Phil’s with an obscene sound. It’s nothing compared to the obscene sound that escapes Phil’s mouth once they’re separate, a desperate, _yearning_ sound that makes Clint’s hips buck, makes him moan again.

“You - you’re really okay with - with this. _With me_ ,” he stammers, trying to catch his breath, looking up at Phil who’s looking back down at him with half-lidded eyes.

“No, Clint,” Phil says, already swooping down to reclaim his lips, “This is a chore, such a _chore_ to touch you and _kiss you_ and _love you_ , _love you so much_ ,” and Clint huffs out a laugh into Phil’s smiling mouth, and another while Phil presses swift kisses on the corners of his lips, the length of his nose, his eyelids, his forehead, his cheeks.

“Oh yeah, I agree,” he pants out later, when Phil’s conquered his mouth yet again, reduced him to a shuddering mess with just the wet rasp of that _tongue_ and tingling strength of those _lips_. “This is - this is _definitely_ our first kiss.”

And when Phil grins down at him, when Phil kisses him _again_ , he’s leapt off that edge, babe, and he’s flying. He is _flying_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up in Part III: The Big Date, a sex marathon and what happens when a sperm meets an egg ...
> 
> (And I greatly appreciate all the kudos and comments! Thank you so much.)


	3. Teaser art for Part III: Agent Sexy Coulson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a teaser art for you all for the next update: Coulson getting ready for his Big Date with Clint. _Oh my_.
> 
> And before you ask, yes, I am indeed drawing Clint next. *grin*
> 
> (Technical details: Done from start to finish in Clip Studio Paint Pro, with references to various photos. Boy, did my browser look lovely for a while with all those photos of Clark Gregg.)

 

( _Please do not repost this anywhere else_. If you really want to reblog this on Tumblr, I'll be happy to make my Tumblr post for it public so you can do that.

If you do see this reposted anywhere without my permission, I would appreciate it very much if you let me know!)


	4. Teaser art for Part III: Agent Trans Barton (NSFW)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another teaser art for the next story update: Clint getting ready for his Big Pounding from Coulson, _if you know what I mean_.
> 
> Orgasmic sex.
> 
> Orgasmic, scream-down-the-walls, all-night-long Clint/Coulson sex is what I mean.
> 
> (Technical details: Done from start to finish in Clip Studio Paint Pro, with references to various photos, particularly of trans activist, [Aydian Dowling](https://www.facebook.com/AydianEDowling). It was an enlightening and fun challenge for me to draw a trans person for the first time, since I had to remain true to MCU!Clint's overall physical appearance and yet also subtly render the minute differences that the body of a trans man after long-term HRT and a bilateral mastectomy would have. My biggest challenge was by far his face and figuring out how 'hard' or 'soft' it should look. I hope I successfully captured a genuine representation of trans!Clint! )

( _Please do not repost this anywhere else_. If you really want to reblog this on Tumblr, I'll be happy to make my Tumblr post for it public so you can do that.

If you do see this reposted anywhere without my permission, I would appreciate it very much if you let me know!)

 


	5. Teaser art for Part III: Various Clint/Coulson (NSFW)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's more teaser art for the next part of the story. They're a bit spoilerish, actually, but hey! Clint and Coulson holding hands! Clint and Coulson doing _waaaay_ more than holding hands! Clint angst! And Coulson comforting angsty Clint!
> 
> I developed so much Clint/Coulson feels from making the previous two art pieces that I had to make these too, so _you will all suffer with me_. *insert evil laugh here*
> 
> (Technical details: Done from start to finish in Clip Studio Paint Pro, with references to various photos, screenshots, etc.)

"You are _unreal_. How are you real?"

"Well, when a _sperm_ and an _egg_ meet each other -"

 

 

 

"Do I get the Clint Barton seal of approval?"

"Oh yeah, A plus, a hundred percent, five stars, the whole shebang, babe."

 

 

 

<<< >>>

 

 

“The hCG test shows that you’re pregnant ... We can do a blood test and an ultrasound to re-confirm the results, if you like. If you intend to maintain the pregnancy, you have to cease your HRT immediately.”

 

 

<<< >>>

 

 

 

“Phil, I … I know you're still in Nairobi and you can’t pick up or call back yet but I just had to … Just ... just, call me when you're coming back, okay?"

 

 

 

“Do I get a say in this, sweetheart?”

“Of course you do … Of course.”

 

 

 

( _Please do not repost these anywhere else_. If you really want to reblog them on Tumblr, I'll be happy to make my Tumblr post for it public so you can do that.

If you do see them reposted anywhere without my permission, I would appreciate it very much if you let me know!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ETA: Just to let you guys know, the reason I'm posting these art pieces is also to help tide you guys over while I run through Part III with a few trans men to make sure it's all good and that I don't accidentally screw something trans-related up with the sex scenes and pregnancy plot. My apologies for the slower posting of it!


	6. Part III (1 of 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, I know this update is late and that it's the first half of Part III rather than the whole thing. But! I had to deal with some important RL businesss, I figured you guys may not want to wait longer for the whole thing, and ... ya know when I mentioned 'sex marathon' in regards to this update?
> 
> Yeah. I wasn't kidding. This update is _so not safe for work_ that it's not even funny. We're talking about almost 16,000 words of Clint/Coulson dating, bantering and _fucking like bunnies_. Thou hast been, uh, warned!
> 
> And as a thank you for your continued patience and understanding, the next update / second half of Part III will have two more detailed sex scenes. You guys aren't too upset about that, right?
> 
> Soundtrack I listened to: [Rui da Silva - Touch Me ft. Cassandra](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3FkApmj8K1M) (old school dance!)

**III.**

 

As a top-level SHIELD spy and agent with over two decades of experience in warfare and espionage, Coulson can say without an ounce of arrogance that he’s damn good at studying other people and learning about them simply by watching them, by watching their reactions to other people and their environment. The skill’s saved his ass and shifted things in his favor more than he can recall. Without it, he’d be dead at the age of thirty-five from a knife slicing his throat from ear to ear in an undercover mission in Belarus, instead of knocking out the would-be assassin before the asshole even had the chance to swing his arm. Without it, he’d be the tortured (and most likely dead) prisoner of an organization of international science-terrorists founded during World War II, instead of being a free agent who incapacitated the organization’s entire North American chapter within a week after their failed attempt to kidnap him as a gambit against Nick and SHIELD. Without it, he would have lost an arm in a car bomb explosion in Tehran ten years ago, instead of being whole and angry, very angry at the terrorists whose faces he smashed his fists into for the innocent civilians who did die.

Without it, he would never have suspected that Clint is any different from any other man he’s met or known, long before Clint told him himself.

On the day they met, the day that split his life into Before Clint and After Clint, that removed ‘alone’ from the vocabulary of his existence, he’d scoured his eyes all over Clint every time he was certain Clint wouldn’t notice. A part of him (an infinitesimal part, really) had been appalled by his _need_ to stare at Clint as much as possible, to absorb every little detail from head to toe and back and immortalize them all in his mind’s gallery. Like Clint’s thick, golden hair, that he now knows feels as luxuriant and soft as it looks. Like Clint’s long, curved eyelashes, that paint fans of shadow upon Clint’s sharp cheeks while Clint naps beside him as he reads with the bedside lamp on. Like Clint’s big, blue eyes, exuberant with verve and laughter now, crinkling at the sides whenever Clint beams with those unfettered, youthful smiles, and that nose, that prominent nose that he loves so and strokes with his fingers and lips until Clint chuckles while half-heartedly trying to push him away. Like Clint’s _arms_ , those superb, muscular arms that command the attention of all in their vicinity, whether they’re about to fire another arrow or whether they wrap around him in the coolness of night as he and Clint gaze up at the stars, surrounded by the other Avengers during an impromptu barbecue on the roof of the Tower.

Over time, as he and Clint interacted regularly and their lives weaved together, he’d constructed a mental twin of Clint from these details. As he sprawled on his bed in his quarters on board the Helicarrier back then, biting his lip, cursing his treacherous hands that slithered into his pants and pumped an erection so rigid and hot just from the thought of Clint, he would dab on whatever new details he’d gleaned from his observations of the day of his exceptional asset (and he’d never forgotten that fact, that one fact that stopped him from showing _anything_ at all about his ardent feelings for Clint until a scepter’s blade through his flank and drugs did the trick).

And over time, certain little details began to stand out over the others.

The first one, he’d noted as soon as Clint had approached him to shake his hand that fateful day they met: The size of Clint’s hands. They were smaller than he expected for a man of Clint’s height, and their fingers more slender. The archer gloves added some illusion of weight and width to them, but for someone with his observation skill, one grasp of Clint’s hand had expelled that illusion.

The second had been the size of Clint’s head in relation to the rest of him, something he’d noticed only when Clint had to shave his whole head after one mission had ended with a godawful, odious (but thankfully not toxic) goop slathering his blond head and most of his upper body. At the time, he hadn’t thought much about it. Figured it was something he was merely imagining (and he can count on one hand the times that’s been true of his scrutiny of anything).

Then the third detail had caused him to do a double take, to reevaluate the mental twin of Clint in his mind time and again: Clint’s hips. The revelation had occurred during a mission with Clint and Natasha, while they were reviewing their plans for an infiltration of a clandestine laboratory manufacturing bio-weapons on the periphery of the Chihuahuan Desert. Clint and Natasha were standing side by side at a table, heads down as they discussed the plans quietly. Clint was attired in a snug, white tank top and black tactical pants while Natasha was in her trademark catsuit. He’d been behind them at another table, and a lamp had lit Clint and Natasha from the front, delineating them like sunlight delineating the arc of the world as it rises over it.

His eyes drank in the alluring silhouette of Clint’s form, roaming from the crown of golden hair and down the back of a long neck and broad shoulders, down a limber spine to hips … much wider than he expected. He’d blinked, then. He’d been unable to stop himself from comparing Clint’s hips to Natasha’s, closely standing together as they were.

And then, a hypothesis assembled itself in his mind, one that would later prove to be accurate.

When Clint had looked him in the eye and told him of his trans status days ago, he’d been so proud, so _humbled_ that Clint had chosen to share this information with him. He still is. He knows what the distress of rejection is like. He knows what it’s like to have someone look askance at him after disclosing his bisexuality, to _see_ the judgment in their eyes and immediately be reduced to a stereotype without a spoken word. He knows what it’s like to see and _feel_ a promising partner close themselves off and become nervous around him, as if he has some disease that’s going to infect them and ruin them. (It’d hurt when she left him and moved back to Portland after that, when she’d implied that he had lied to her about who he really was by not mentioning beforehand that he’s also sexually attracted to men. But that was before he met Clint. A closed chapter never to be relived.)

Every detail of the Clint-clone in his mind had clicked together when Clint had slid those adroit hands into dark purple sweatpants and removed what he already knew was called a packer. Later that day, Clint would voluntarily show it to him and allow him to inspect it but before that, when they kissed and kissed and rolled around intertwined on the bed and _kissed_ , that had been nothing short of _rapturous_. He’s always been heedful of respecting Clint’s personal space, of asking Clint for consent before touching Clint, and to finally touch Clint from head to toe, to finally _feel_ Clint’s sublime, muscular body writhing against his like it did, feel Clint’s long legs around his hips, feel the _folds_ in the cusp of Clint’s legs mold to the hard length of his cock even with their sweatpants between them, like he’s _destined to be there_ -

Jesus, if only Clint knew how damn close he’d been to coming in his pants like a horny teenager. Especially when Clint bucked those gorgeous hips (and they are, _god_ , he loves them just the way they are) against his and let out those carnal cries into his mouth.

And tonight, being the night of their first official date in public as a couple?

He isn’t sure if he’ll survive till the morning when they finally strip naked in front of each other and _make love_.

“Stay the fuck down, you,” he mumbles with something of an amused grimace to the disobedient organ between his legs as he dons a dress shirt in the master bedroom’s walk-in closet. “In case you haven’t noticed, we left adolescence _decades_ ago.”

To his chagrin, his pants remain stubbornly tented at the groin. Never has he been more glad for shutting the door of the walk-in closet so that Clint, who’s waiting for him in the bedroom, can’t see him get dressed.

“ _Phiiiiiillll_ , what are ya doing in there? Are you putting on _make up_?” Clint whines through said door. There’s a pause, after which Clint says, “Can I watch? Can I _help_?”

Coulson snorts and smiles to himself.

“Give me a few more minutes.”

“Do you need help? Do you want me to come in there and _help you_?”

He can hear the amusement dripping off Clint’s words like honey off toast. It makes the smile linger on his face, makes him glance at himself in the full-length mirror in front of which he’s standing.

 _Yes, I want you to_ come _in here and_ help _me put this beast down_ , he wants to say, even as the mere consideration of such a comeback makes him grimace again and yet also want to snicker. He knows Clint will actually do it without a second thought, barge right in and rip his clothes off like he’ll rip off Clint’s clothes and then they’ll kiss and _kiss_ and fall over onto the leather ottoman in the center of the closet and _never leave the room_.

Now he can’t have that, not with what he’s got in mind for the evening before they come back.

So he says, “You wait out there! I’ll be right out.”

“C’mon, Phil, lemme _see_ you! Hurry up!” Clint says merrily, slapping the door with both hands.

Coulson smiles wider. He sees his eyes crinkle behind his black, thick-framed glasses in the mirror, feels his chest puff up with the knowledge of how desirable Clint finds him to be, of how much Clint desires to be with him. In a twist of irony, this is when his body decides to finally obey him, to deflate and calm until further notice.

His fingers go still on the third button of his dress shirt. He sucks in his lower lip as he gazes at himself in the mirror, at his current choice of attire. He knows Clint finds him very attractive when he’s garbed in a suit, particularly when he has a purple tie on. But … is a suit sans tie what he should wear on a night like _this_?

With his dress shirt still half-unbuttoned, he glances at his side of the walk-in closet, at the section where he stores his more casual outfits. Among them is a black leather jacket he’s owned for more than twenty-five years, a gift from his father when his age turned around the same number. He gazes at it for a long while, envisaging himself in it with a white tank top and black slacks.

Yes. Yes, _that_ _’ll_ do tonight.

The white, v-neck tank top is snug around his torso but gentle on the still healing scars on his belly and back. The slacks fit him perfectly, tailored as they are. The leather jacket still fits him after all these years, he knows, but he doesn’t put it on yet. He goes to the walk-in closet’s door with his glasses and the jacket hanging from his left hand and slides it open to see Clint flopped and spread-eagled on their bed, eyes shut in seeming slumber.

His lips quirk up at Clint’s outfit of a very light purplish-white, button-down shirt and jeans and a tan blazer. Clint had pleasantly surprised him with the somewhat formal apparel. He’d expected Clint to just throw on a t-shirt and low rise jeans (and he’s seen Clint in such a getup often enough that he knows it’s one of Clint’s go-to combos), but Clint had explained - with an endearingly flushed face - that tonight is _important_ to him.

Well, it is to him, too. And it’s Clint’s turn to be surprised now.

His expression goes deadpan as Clint sits up and sees him standing in the walk-in closet’s doorway. It takes him a remarkable amount of willpower to not break that expression as Clint’s whole face goes slack with something akin to veneration, as Clint’s jaw sags while he puts on the leather jacket and shamelessly flaunts the bunching muscles of his shoulders, torso and bare arms.

It’s when he casually puts on his glasses with fingers on both hinges, that Clint speaks.

“Oh. There you are.”

Clint is grinning widely at him, and it’s so contagious that he can’t resist smiling back, can’t resist laughing aloud when Clint leaps from the bed and tackles him into a taut embrace that almost knocks him off his feet. He also enfolds Clint with his arms, planting a kiss or three on Clint’s bristly cheek. He’d deliberately not shaved too, after Clint mentioned earlier that him with a five o’clock beard shadow is ‘super fucking sexy hot’. Who is he, as a smart man with a wise, handsome boyfriend with classy tastes in men, to deny that?

After Clint kisses him on the lips, a chaste albeit prolonged one, Clint looks him in the eye and says, “Look, before we go out … I need to know something first.”

With his deadpan expression on again, he replies, “No, I don’t have a fourth nipple.”

He’ll never tire of listening to Clint laugh, especially like this, right now, carefree and spontaneous and with eyes squeezed shut. With his arms still around Clint’s waist, he rocks them from side to side, trying not to smile.

“I’m _serious_ here, okay!” Clint gives him a smack on the right shoulder. “I need to know how things are gonna be with … ya know, us. As handler and asset.”

He tilts his head to one side as he gazes back at Clint.

“Are you expecting things to change in that relationship after tonight?” he asks staidly, his SHIELD handler countenance manifesting itself. “Do you intend to stop being professional and start botching up missions?”

Clint instantly shakes his head, his eyes wide and earnest.

“ _No_ , of course not!”

“Then nothing is going to change,” he says, very much just Phil again, his eyes warm.

Clint chews on a plump (and oh-so-luscious) lower lip for a moment. Clint doesn’t appear convinced and says so as much.

“It can’t be that easy, okay? I mean, the whole thing about a sexual or _romantic_ relationship between handler and asset being _forbidden_? It’s in the _rulebook_! I _know_!”

Coulson raises one of his eyebrows. He has the perfect answer to _that_.

“Fuck the rulebook.”

He’d chuckle at the utter shock on Clint’s face, at Clint’s eyes going so wide that he can see the whites around the blue irises and Clint’s mouth opening into an ‘o’, but seconds later, laughter is erupting out of Clint again. He prefers hearing that instead.

“Oh my god, did you just _say_ that? Did you really just say that, _Agent Coulson_? He Who Lives, Eats, Breathes and Shits by the SHIELD Rulebook?”

Coulson raises his eyebrow even higher.

“Clint, I _wrote_ the rulebook with the Director. Who is my best friend from my Ranger days, by the way.” He tilts his head the other way, pasting on a mock expression of intense contemplation. “Well, until you came along.” He glances up at the ceiling with the same expression. “Sorry, Nick. But it’s your own fault for introducing him to me.”

Clint laughs again, cupping his face with both hands.

“Be nice. You can have more than one best friend.”

“Doesn’t that render ‘best’ moot? ‘Best’ implies there can be only one. So if you have more than one best friend, doesn’t that mean that none of them are best but simply _better_ than others?”

Still gripping his head with both hands, Clint shakes it playfully.

“Are you high on drugs again?” Clint asks, teeth glinting under the bedroom ceiling lights.

“No. I think I’m just high on you,” Coulson replies softly, sincerely, and for that, Clint kisses him as softly and sincerely.

“C’mon. Let’s go _eat_. I’m starving,” Clint rasps after several more kisses.

Coulson feels lust flare in him once more at the double entendre of Clint’s comments. He sees it in Clint too, in the renewed flush of Clint’s face, in the way Clint licks his lips and glances at him from beneath those long eyelashes. There’s also his contrary cock that’s decided to harden again, pressing against his suddenly constrictive pants, against Clint’s groin that _isn_ _’t_ packed.

“You want me to _help_ you with that?” Clint whispers less than an inch away from his lips, eyes heavy-lidded.

Coulson gives in to the temptation of kissing Clint yet again, pressing their parted lips together, running the tip of his tongue across Clint’s teeth. Then, reluctantly, he grasps Clint by the upper arms and moves Clint back and away from him. His partial erection is certainly protesting the physical separation.

“If you do that,” he says gruffly, his gaze flitting between Clint’s eyes and Clint licking his lips again, “we will _never_ leave this room. And I’ve already booked a dinner for us and I want the world to see me with you.”

Clint’s eyes gleam with a light that makes that thing in the left side of his chest skip a long beat and sing.

“Okay, babe. Okay.”

Soon, they walk to the main elevator side by side. Clint doesn’t comment about it, or ask why they aren’t taking the private elevator instead. In it, they stand close enough that their upper arms are pressed together, that their hands graze and tingle with each touch. When the elevator doors open up on the ground floor of the Tower, however, Clint purposely takes a step to the side, just enough that there’s a hand’s breadth of space between them. It’s what Clint’s done so far every time they’ve appeared in public, as if Clint is afraid of overstepping some imaginary bounds in regards to their relationship when the rest of the world can see them.

Ah. Clint must have assumed by his earlier statement that he meant he only wanted the world to see them out and about together, and nothing more. No open displays of affection. No overt, undeniable signs of them being more than friends, being _lovers_. Clint is probably expecting them to travel by car too, out of sight, out of mind of the public. (He’ll gladly take Clint out on a date in his red Chevrolet Corvette, Lola, but that’ll be for another night. They have time.)

Well. From tonight on, all that is going to change, and Clint will _know_ it.

“Shall we?” he says, gesturing at the elevator’s open doors, purposely pressing one hand to Clint’s lower back and leaving it there.

Clint doesn’t move away from his hand. Clint swivels his head to gaze at him, searching his face for something that he hopes Clint finds. Whatever it is, it seems that Clint does find it, for he feels the muscles of Clint’s lower back relax under his hand. He sees Clint’s eyes suffuse with warmth. He sees Clint’s lips bow up in the rarest smile, the one that’s his and his alone, a closed-lipped, sweet smile that says, _I can_ _’t believe you’re real and mine, but you are, you are_.

He sees the smile grow as he links his right hand with Clint’s left while they saunter across a crowded lobby towards the looming main entrance of the Tower. He sees the numerous employees of Stark Industries and security guards turn their heads to watch them walk out of the Tower, hand in hand. He knows that even before he and Clint step onto the sidewalk, plenty of photos and messages about them will already be snapped and sent to many other phones in the city, the country, the _world_.

By tomorrow morning, the internet will be _exploding_ with photos of their first public kiss on the sidewalk, with speculation about how Hawkeye, rumored for _ages_ to be an exclusively heterosexual stud with an extensive list of young female conquests, had managed to hide his homosexuality so well and who the man with spectacles is in relation to him. (The Tumblr post for the photos will exceed several million notes by the day after tomorrow, after Tony links to it on his fan page with the caption, “Ah, amour.”) By tomorrow noon, Coulson will be identified as the Avengers’ official liaison with SHIELD, triggering online comment threads hundreds of pages long about what he and Hawkeye are like in the sack and whether a raunchy sex tape of them will ever surface. By tomorrow afternoon, Tony will be leaving a voice mail on Clint’s StarkPad that says, “ _So_ , you two have decided to inflict the rest of the world with your instant killer diabetes, _hmm_? I see your evil plan. _I see it_.” By tomorrow evening, he and Clint will have made violent, shake-them-inside-out love copious times on their bed and on the leather ottoman in their walk-in closet, on the sink vanity and in the unbelievable shower in the en suite bathroom, on the semi-circular, lavish couch in the living room, on the kitchen counters, and even up against the living room’s ceiling-to-floor, reinforced windows, with Clint’s hair blazing in afternoon sunshine while Clint arches his back and neck against the glass and cries out to the heavens with each thrust.

But for now, they are still just Phil and Clint, holding hands as lovers in love are wont to do, strolling down a bustling New York City street towards their destination for an intimate dinner.

“You are unreal,” Clint murmurs to him, eyes still warm, face still glowing.

“I am _quite_ sure I’m real, considering I’m holding the hand of a very real, _very_ attractive, sexy, _delectable_ man who’s drawing looks from everyone around us,” he says, giving Clint’s hand a squeeze, his lips quirking up.

Clint blushes and makes a face, but smiles seconds later anyway.

“Maybe they’re looking at _you_ , ya know. You look so damn _hot_ in a leather jacket. I’ve never seen you wear one before.”

“My father gave it to me when I was twenty-six.”

Clint glances at him, still smiling, his eyes now lit with curiosity.

“Wow. It’s a really nice gift.”

Coulson glances back at Clint, tugging Clint closer to him, his eyes crinkling when Clint leans into him and looks away bashfully. Clint appears so boyish when he does that, as if the years of trauma and heartache, so many of them, had never happened to Clint. But they did, and he’s never forgotten that about Clint, about how impoverished and discriminated against Clint had been for almost the entirety of his life. From what he’s read of Clint’s classified SHIELD files that only he, Nick, Deputy Director Hill and Dr. Langley can access, Clint’s father had been an abusive bastard of an alcoholic, having sent Clint’s mother to the hospital countless times with a variety of injuries before drunk driving with her in the family car and killing them both. An abusive bastard who regularly beat Clint, and his older brother Barney, too.

An abusive bastard like that would never have bought Clint anything, much less a gift out of love.

Clint has no idea what it’s like to have a loving father. To have someone give him something simply because they love him for _him_.

Coulson tightens his fingers around Clint’s, perhaps a little too hard, but Clint doesn’t complain.

“Yes. Dad was a good man,” he murmurs, his eyes glazed over as he thinks of his father, of his father’s slight, fond smile, of his father helping him to don the jacket for the first time and nodding in silent approval. “I think he would have liked you. He and Mom, if they were still alive and you got to meet them.”

Clint is quiet for some time, appearing pensive. Coulson knows that Clint is thinking of his own parents, thinking about how different their parents must have been, about how different _they_ must be due to their disparate upbringing by such parents. He knows Clint won’t say anything about wishing he could meet Clint’s parents. He isn’t certain he wants to, either, unless it’s to bring Clint’s father back from the dead so he can beat up the piece of shit right back into the grave for hurting and robbing Clint of so much.

“Phil?” Clint eventually says, gaze aimed down at the ground. “Is this place we’re going to, uh, _fancy_?”

“Why do you ask?” Coulson says quietly, gazing at Clint’s appealing profile as they continue to amble down the sidewalk and crosswalks.

“It’s just … I don’t do fancy dinners.” Clint makes a self-disparaging face, one that Coulson wants to sweep away with a tender touch. “I’m just no good with fancy places. I dressed up like this just in case we _are_ going somewhere like that, but still, I mean, I’m just white tra-”

Clint abruptly sucks in his lips, cutting himself off. Coulson knows what Clint had been about to say, and knowing that Clint actually thinks of himself like that even now, as _trash_ , makes him itch all the more to resurrect Clint’s piece of shit father and _hurt_ him. (He’s learned many, _many_ ways to do that to someone who deserves it, since activating SHIELD with Nick.)

He tugs Clint’s hand close to his body until Clint looks at him again. Clint’s eyes are large and ingenuous. Diffident. The eyes of a boy who’s known only poverty and tribulation and despair, who thinks that he doesn’t deserve better.

“I suppose it depends on whether you think a steak house is fancy or not.”

Clint’s eyes light up like a bulb being switched on.

“Really? A steak house? Like, steak and burgers and fries?”

“Yep,” Coulson replies casually, popping the ‘p’. “And roasted ribs and salads and shrimp cocktails and beer and … dessert.”

Ah, there it is again, that lovely smile upon Clint’s lovely, flushed face.

“Yeah. Okay. Steak house, I can do.” Clint clears his throat once. “And _dessert_ too.”

“Mmm.” Even as something in the pit of his stomach clenches in anticipation, Coulson says, still casually, “That’s good. I don’t want to go any place that’s foolish enough to deny _you_ , anyway. Those fancy places can go fuck themselves in the navel with no lube.”

And _ah_ , there it is, that mellifluous laugh that he treasures so.

“You are _unreal_ ,” Clint says, gazing at him and grinning. “How are you real?”

“Well, when a _sperm_ and an _egg_ meet each other -” Clint punches him in the arm with his free hand and laughs again, but he goes on anyway as deadpan as ever, “the sperm burrows into the egg and fertilizes it. The egg then stops any other sperm from entering it, and stays in the fallopian tube for several days while dividing into many cells. It continues to divide as it travels into the uterus - in this case, my mother’s - and attaches itself to the lining of said uterus. The lining gets thicker, the cervix plugs up, _aaaand_ for the next nine months or so, the cells grow and grow into a baby that’s then born to Robert and Julie Coulson on July 8th, 1964 in the Holy Family Memorial Hospital in Manitowoc, Wisconsin.”

Coulson lets his deadpan face crack into a small smile as Clint smacks him on the shoulder.

“Smartass.”

“I think that’s why you fell in love with me in the first place.”

Clint rolls his eyes, still smiling away. He feels Clint squeeze his hand.

“No, the why would be your _hot_ ass.”

“That, too,” Coulson says, totally straight-faced, and once more, Clint lets out a jovial laugh.

Clint immediately enfolds an arm around his waist, under his leather jacket, after he enfolds an arm around Clint’s shoulders. He can feel Clint’s forearm as a sensual brand against his lower back as Clint rubs his hip in a hypnotizing rhythm. He, in turn, rubs Clint’s right shoulder joint with his palm, relishing the firmness of sturdy muscles there.

“Phil?”

“Hmm?”

“You know you’re … the only one, right?”

For an instant, Coulson is inclined to give a facetious answer. What he says instead is, “Yes. I know. You did say I was the first person you ever kissed. I presumed from that, and from what you told me about yourself, that you haven’t had much sexual experience with someone else.”

Clint goes very red at that.

“ _Zero_ experience, more like.” Clint doesn’t look at him as Clint murmurs, “I know what people say about me. On the Helicarrier. On the _internet_. I Googled myself and there were like, _tons_ of websites claiming I’m this super-hetero _womanizer_ or something who’s got a thing for young women and they even had _lists_ of women, _celebrities_ even, that I’ve supposedly fucked and it’s just -” Clint shakes his head, grimacing with a mixture of amusement and mortification. “It’s crazy. Some of these websites just _twist_ stuff I’ve said at press conferences and interviews, and next thing ya know, I’ve got secret lovers all over the country and random women popping up claiming that I’m their _baby daddy_ and it’s - yeah, it’s crazy. And hilarious.”

Coulson snorts with similar amusement and squeezes Clint’s upper arm.

“You _are_ world famous now. People have gone wild with gossip about famous people for as long as people and celebrityhood have existed. And think of the gay celebrities who were in the closet before coming out, who claimed to be straight with numerous female lovers and made public appearances with various women to maintain that illusion. Married women and had children with them, even. Many of them managed to convince the public they were anything but gay for years, _decades_ and they had gossip just like yours circulating about them.”

“Jeez.” Clint shakes his head again. “Did you know there are people who think I’ve had sex with _Natasha_?”

Coulson coughs once, which makes Clint glance at him with raised eyebrows and already tremoring lips.

“Well … so did I. For a while,” he says, which makes Clint smile with surprise at him.

“Seriously?! _Me_ and _Tasha_? _You_ thought that for real?”

“ _Weeell_ , you _did_ disobey a direct order from your handler then to kill her,” he says, at which Clint winces, “and the two of you _did_ become very close after that, if the gossip I heard about _that_ is true. Particularly after the mission in Greenland.”

“That’s because she found out about me then. When we were hunting down Grossman and cornered him in that warehouse.”

Coulson blinks, then glances at Clint’s face.

“You came back in blue coveralls instead of the black tactical suit,” he says, dredging up his memory of the files on the mission. “It was mentioned in Liu’s report that you wouldn’t explain why.”

“Yeah. Acid. Not a good combination with clothing and a silicone packer.”

“Ah.”

Coulson files away this new tidbit of information regarding the Qaqortoq mission, and about Natasha’s knowledge and acceptance of Clint’s status for so long. He’s pleased that Natasha has been Clint’s emotional support and trusted confidant all these years, that Clint _did_ have someone with whom Clint could truly be himself before he came along. And Clint had been right in ignoring Liu’s order, in giving Natasha a second chance at life. Clint had recognized a kindred spirit, a lost soul who simply wanted to belong somewhere, to be free.

Clint has a heart that still feels, still loves, even after every affliction it’s been through.

“So, yeah. That’s me, Mr. Virgin-with-Zero-Sex-Experience,” Clint says after a few minutes, glancing at him and then away as swiftly.

He has a hunch of what Clint wishes to ask him but doesn’t dare to, and so he asks straightforwardly, “Would you like to know about _my_ sexual history?”

Clint bites his lower lip. Glances at him again, then nods.

“Yeah. But! Only if ya wanna tell,” Clint murmurs. “I just … I guess I’m just really surprised you aren’t already happily married with three kids or something. Guy like you.”

“Guy like me?” he says, his lips quirking up with fondness, and Clint smiles coyly.

“Yeah, a guy like you. Smart. Brave. Kind. Handsome. Super-badass. _Competent_.” Clint huffs out a low laugh. “That’s what _everyone_ says about you: Competent. You do everything _right_.”

Coulson’s chest swells from Clint’s praises of him. He knows that Clint means them, that Clint isn’t merely saying them as empty flattery.

“Oh, I’ve made mistakes. Believe me, I have.” His eyes narrow in concentration as he recalls his much younger years, hazy as they are now. “I had a girlfriend in high school. Broke up when I went to The Point. I had a few _affairs_ outside of the academy,” - to which Clint makes a whistling noise that brings a momentary smirk to his face - “and by that, I mean they weren’t really serious relationships so much as commitment-free, temporary … arrangements. That was when I started dating men as well.” When Clint just nods at that, he says, “Then there were a handful of one night stands during my Ranger years. When Nick and I established SHIELD, I dated a few people from the administrative departments. Casual dating, mostly. I’ve also dated outside of SHIELD. And I’ve had my share of rejections, although only one, well, hit me harder than I thought.”

He feels Clint’s eyes on his face as he gazes ahead.

“Who the hell is _stupid_ enough to reject _you_?” Clint says quietly, and there’s a fine, dangerous edge to Clint’s voice that makes shivers shoot up and down his spine. The _good_ kind.

He shrugs one shoulder, then says with what he hopes is a blasé tone, “About four years before you and I met, I met someone outside of SHIELD, after a concert at Avery Fisher Hall. She was a cellist from Portland. My relationship with her lasted for almost two years, the longest one I had so far. It got to the point where I could see myself possibly settling down with her. The thing was, I … didn’t tell her about my bisexuality.”

Clint is still gazing at his face, waiting for him to speak again.

“When I did, she … didn’t take it well. She felt that I’d tricked her. _Lied_ to her. That I was … a gay man in denial who was simply using her to stay in the closet.”

He doesn’t have to look at Clint’s face to know the expression that must be there.

“So, _what_? She just -” Clint waves around his free hand as he sputters, “wouldn’t believe you when you told her the _truth_? Just upped and _walked away_ from a long-term relationship with you, just like that?”

Coulson draws in a long breath, then says, “Yes.”

They’re both silent for a few minutes, gazing ahead as they walk at a leisurely pace, their arms still around each other. Then, whatever unease that had simmered up from mentioning his ex evaporates when Clint encircles his waist with both arms and leans that golden head against his. Another tender smile makes its camp upon his face, and he thinks that maybe this one will stay for the rest of the night - the rest of his life - knowing that this exquisite man next to him is his, knowing now that leaving him had been the best thing his ex had done for him.

“That is such bullshit. That is _such_ bullshit,” Clint says, low, with that fine, dangerous edge. “No offense, Phil, but if she ever comes back and tries to take you back, I will stab her in the face with an arrow.” Upon seeing his raised eyebrow but twinkling eyes, Clint makes a face and adds, “Yeah, okay, that’s a pretty _violent_ reaction, I know. But she …”

He halts on the sidewalk when Clint does, letting Clint turn him so they’re facing each other. He’s dimly aware of other pedestrians passing them, of some of them giving them a glance and recognizing Clint. He gazes only at Clint, feeling Clint’s calloused, deft hands upon his chest, feeling Clint’s gaze upon his face and flitting down as Clint murmurs, “I know it must have hurt. I don’t like you hurt, okay?”

Coulson thinks of that moment in the underbelly of the Helicarrier, when he collapsed against a wall with twin gashes in his right flank and beheld an enraged, roaring Clint charging at Loki without any weapons other than his own trained body. Without hesitation, Clint had assailed Loki with single-minded blows, blind to the fact that it was a screaming, psychotic, god-like being from another realm he was battering with his bare hands.

Clint had faced a _god_ for him when said god wounded him. And _won_.

He caresses Clint’s stubbly cheek with the back of his fingers.

“The feeling’s mutual,” he whispers, and then he leans forward and kisses Clint on the lips, there in front of anyone passing by and who may be watching them. Clint cups his face with one hand and kisses back without hesitation, without any hesitation at all.

They smile at each other after they reluctantly part their lips, the tips of their noses grazing. He’s _pretty_ sure the smiling, young lady in a red poncho standing nearby has snapped a few photos of them kissing with her phone, and that a group of elderly Asian tourists with cameras around their necks and brochures in hand are gawking at them, but he can’t care less.

Let them look. Let them see how _fortunate_ he is, to have the astounding Hawkeye as the Love of His Life.

He and Clint hold hands once more as they resume walking. He ignores the stares directed at them, focusing on Clint’s shoulders squaring, on Clint’s spine straightening and head going high with a genuine confidence that amplifies his attractiveness even more. It’s a really good look on Clint. It’s a look that Clint should have had from the beginning of his life, instead of the wrecked self-esteem and condemned sense of self that Clint was drilled into believing is all he merits.

“You know, I _have_ been rejected for far more inane reasons,” he says, and he feels Clint’s eyes on him again.

“Yeah? And what _reasons_ did these dumbasses give, exactly?”

Coulson gesticulates with one hand at his hair.

“Oh, that I’m not good-looking enough. Too reserved, I’ve been told more than once. That I have receding, thinning hair that turns them off. That I’m a balding, unassuming geezer, basically.”

He doesn’t mention that until Clint had confessed his feelings to him in the Helicarrier’s medical bay months ago, he’d already resigned himself to believing that even if Clint was sexually attracted to other men, his apparently unappealing hair and ordinary countenance would certainly turn Clint off. After all, why would a _stunning_ man like Clint want him when Clint can have _anyone_ he wants?

He still feels bowled over whenever he remembers that out of the billions of people living on this planet right now, Clint’s chosen _him_.

“Who said that?” Clint says, face abruptly stern, the edge to his voice even finer and more dangerous. “Who said all that about my man? About the most handsome, wonderful man in the world?”

Coulson’s lips tremor hard. Protective Clint is a thing to be savored, like hot chocolate and melting marshmallows on a drizzly evening.

“What are their names? Where do they live? Tell me, Phil,” Clint growls, clutching at the lapels of his leather jacket, eyes twinkling although his expression is still stern. “I’m going to stab them with my arrows. _All_ my arrows. _All of them_.”

Coulson gives up on fighting his grin and lets it burgeon across his face. He chuckles softly as he embraces Clint with both arms, as Clint hugs his back as hard, their cheeks pressed together.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs into Clint’s ear. “They’re not worth it.”

 _I'_ _ve got you now_ , that thing in the left side of his chest sings, _I_ _’ve got you_.

“Stab them all with my arrows,” Clint says again, vehemently, and Coulson snorts, his crinkled eyes shutting as the singing thing in his chest feels like bursting, as the ground beneath his feet seems to fall away and leave him floating like an evergreen leaf on a spring breeze. Clint continues to demand for names from him for a few more minutes, until he laughs and gives Clint a quick peck on the cheek. He really does feel like the most handsome, wonderful man in the world. How can he not, when Clint is gazing at him the way he is now, as if he is all there is in the universe for Clint?

Coulson makes sure to grip Clint’s hand again as they enter the teeming steak house. It’s one of the most popular ones in the city, its roast prime ribs and burgers highly recommended based on the dozens of positive reviews available online. (And when a billionaire like Tony Stark who frequently dines at three-star Michelin restaurants tells you its half-pound, grilled burger is ‘to die for’, it’s a suggestion worth exploring for a pivotal first date with the man with whom he’s madly, deeply in love.)

They’re led to a secluded table in a corner by one of the waiters, where Coulson pulls out a chair for Clint before the waiter has the opportunity to do so. He runs his hand across Clint’s shoulders as he goes to his own seat. He can sense curious eyes on them and hear muted whispers, surely more about Clint since the Avengers are now globally known since the Battle of New York. He orders for both of them at Clint’s behest: A Caesar salad with vinaigrette dressing, two mugs of draft beer, a jumbo shrimp cocktail, a burger special with French fries, and a plate of roast prime ribs with onion rings.

After the waiter leaves, Coulson drags his seat closer to Clint’s, delighting in Clint’s bashful smile when he holds Clint’s hand on the table top and leans forward so their noses touch. Oh yes, Clint has no doubts whatsoever now about his opinion on public displays of affection.

He waits until Clint looks him in the eye before saying, “Tell me about yourself.”

Clint’s smile transmutes into one of warm reminiscence, and he knows that Clint is also thinking of a dazzlingly sunlit morning on the Helicarrier two years ago, when they sat facing each other across a desk in his office, already heads over heels in love with each other and on their destined, inevitable path to this very moment and place in the history of their existence. It feels as if it was only yesterday that he met Clint for the first time. It feels as if they are being given the chance to relive that day, to do and say what they should have on that fateful day.

“What do ya wanna know?” Clint murmurs, those big, heavy-lidded blue eyes roaming his face.

“Anything. Everything,” he murmurs back, stroking Clint’s fingers.

With a self-conscious tone at first, Clint tells him of his years in the Carson Carnival of Traveling Wonders after running away from the orphanage in Waverly with his brother. When Clint speaks of being a shining star in the circus ring, of the crowds cheering for him at the end of his popular acts, he beams like the summer sun on a cloudless day. When Clint speaks of his brother, of how Barney could never see him as a boy, of how Barney had just left one day and never looked back at him, dark gray and downcast clouds eclipse the radiance in Clint’s eyes. When Clint speaks of his former mentor, the Swordsman, also known as Jacques Duquesne, and how Duquesne had beaten him until his ribs fractured and he spat and pissed blood for days for daring to defy him, there are only stormy clouds and rain in Clint’s eyes.

Coulson listens silently, attentively, his face never once shifting from its genial expression. But inside, he seethes with an anger that puts to shame the storm in Clint’s eyes, that swears to avenge the abused teenage boy that Clint was. If Duquesne is still alive, he will do everything in his power to visit upon the sonofabitch ten times the suffering he’d inflicted on Clint.

Clint seems to know what’s going through his mind, for he says with eyes clearing up, with eyes gleaming with sunshine and peace once more, “They’re not worth it, Phil.”

“I wouldn’t be doing it for them,” he murmurs, and Clint glances down, lips bowed up in that sweet, closed-lipped smile again.

The waiter returns to their table with their beer, salad and shrimp cocktail. As they share the food, Clint says, “Tell me what it was like for you, when you were a teenager too.”

Coulson tells him of idyllic though often monotonous years of high school as a single child whose parents cared very much for him and was well-liked enough by his peers and teachers. He’d wanted a brother when he was a small child, because his room had seemed so big and quiet when it was just him in it, and as a teenager, he’d filled it with even more Captain America memorabilia and friends who would come over on the weekends for group studies or just to hang out.

He expects Clint to tease him when he mentions playing role-playing board games and strolling through the West of the Lake Gardens with said friends, but Clint says softly, “So many people loved you. I’m glad,” and for a minute, he can’t speak from the boulder that’s lodged in his throat at the sincerity in Clint’s voice.

The rest of his life, he thinks, truly is too short a time to love this man.

When the waiter returns again with the rest of their order, they’re holding hands under the table, and they continue to do so as he hand-feeds Clint the burger and fries while Clint hand-feeds him the ribs and onion rings. He doesn’t give a damn what they may look like to the other patrons, two men long past their thirties who are playing footsie under the table too, bantering and giggling (yes, he does that sometimes, he isn’t scared to acknowledge that) at one quip or another that they shoot at each other like a dance of flying arrows.

If the other patrons only dare to sneak glances at Clint, he has no qualms about staring openly at Clint, about feeling so damn _lucky_ to be sitting here with Clint like this.

“What?” Clint says, breaking their eye contact, turning as red as the cherry tomato remaining in the salad bowl.

The words unfurl from Coulson’s tongue before he even consciously thinks of them.

“You’re beautiful.”

For several seconds, Clint seems unable to respond, turning even redder and beaming.

“Jeez … you know, I’d punch anybody else who said that to me,” Clint mumbles down at the table.

“But not me?”

Clint glances at him, then glances away again and says with quiet adoration, “No. Because you mean it.”

“I do mean it,” he murmurs, gazing still at Clint who looks at him once more. “I mean everything that I say about you, every word that strives to encompass the miracle of you, precisely as you are. And all those words, all the words that already exist? They still aren’t enough to do you justice.” His lips quirk up in that way that he knows now isn’t weird, that Clint prizes so. “My tremendous, wonderful _you_.”

This time, he isn’t doped up on drugs on a hospital bed. This time, he knows Clint can’t rationalize away the truthfulness of his declaration, that the tender smile that blooms like a flower under a brilliant star across Clint’s face is one that understands and accepts it.

“You are such a _mushbag_ ,” Clint says, glancing away yet again, shaking his head. Still beaming, _beaming_.

“I think that’s another reason you fell in love with me,” Coulson says, his own smile spreading, and Clint doesn’t object to this second declaration at all.

Without any discussion, they go Dutch with the bill. Before Coulson asks for the bill, though, the waiter asks them if they’re interested in dessert. Clint gives him one long, pointed glance and then covers his mouth with one hand, shoulders quavering. With a straight face, he turns to the smiling waiter and says,” No, thank you, we’re having our dessert at home,” upon which Clint covers his whole face with both hands, shoulders quavering even more.

“You _know_ that’s going to show up on the internet one way or another, right?” Clint says after the waiter leaves with the bill and payment, still snickering silently.

“What, that we’re going to fuck like animals when we go back and make Stark wish he’d soundproofed our entire apartment?” Coulson replies with his best deadpan face.

Again, Clint covers his face with both hands.

“Oh my god, Phil, you do _not_ say shit like that in public when ya _don_ _’t_ want me to pounce on you.”

“Maybe I want you to, Clint. Maybe I want to crush you against the wall and eat you up and give everyone the fucking show of their lives while you scream and claw at my back,” Coulson rasps, and oh fuck, is he thankful that he’s still sitting down, that the table is blocking his groin from view while his brain-to-mouth filter just _dies_. “Maybe I want _you_ to crush me against the wall and eat _me_ up until I’m screaming and coming down your throat.”

Clint gapes at him with massive eyes and an open mouth and trembling lips.

“You are evil,” Clint breathes, face red for a very, _very_ different reason. “Pure evil. Pure fucking _evil_.”

“You know …” Coulson tilts his head to one side, barely clinging on to his deadpan expression. “I think that’s _another_ reason you fell in love with me.”

He doesn’t hear Clint’s husky response to that. Clint grabs his hand and pulls him out of his seat, out of the steak house and then they’re running hand in hand, running and laughing and swerving their way between pedestrians who glance backward at them with smiles or curious expressions. It feels like an eternity and yet mere seconds before they’re back at the Tower again, dashing into the private, secure entrance leading to the elevator that’ll go straight up to the Avengers’ apartments.

The instant the elevator doors shut behind them, Clint slams him against one stainless steel wall and kisses him hard, shoving those calloused, _skillful_ hands under his tank top, caressing his heaving chest and stomach and pressing up between his legs. Clint kisses like he shoots an arrow, concentrating completely and solely on the act, giving it everything he’s got. It makes goosebumps break out all over Coulson’s heated skin, makes him groan into Clint’s mouth and fist a hand in Clint’s hair and not give a fuck when his glasses go flying from his face onto the elevator floor as their lips open up and they slide in to taste each other.

Clint loses his blazer somewhere in the hallway between the elevator and the living room as they kiss and moan and yank at each other’s clothes, stumbling their way to their bedroom without once separating, colliding into walls and bodily shoving each other against them as they fuck each other’s mouths with their tongues. Coulson loses his leather jacket somewhere in the hallway leading to their bedroom but he doesn’t care, all he cares about is kissing and licking and nipping along the exposed arc of Clint’s neck, planting open-mouthed kisses upon smooth, hot skin and a thundering pulse until a panting Clint pulls his head up to crash their lips together again.

“Want you,” he rasps into Clint’s mouth. “Want you so much. _Need_ you, Clint.”

From a million miles away, he hears the bedroom door slam shut behind them. He feels Clint’s hands on the side of his neck, on his chest under his tank top. He feels more than hears Clint moan against his lips as he pulls Clint’s shirt out of his jeans and slides his hand up Clint’s muscled back and crushes Clint to him. He wants Clint as close as possible to him. He wants to _absorb_ Clint into his very being, until he can’t tell where he starts and where Clint ends.

He wants to be _inside_ Clint so bad, to have Clint inside _him_.

He wedges one leg between Clint’s quivering thighs. He sucks at the hinge of Clint’s bristly jaw, nibbles at the fleshy earlobe above it.

“Phil,” Clint whispers as if he can’t speak any louder, clutching at him as if his legs are about to give out.

“Clint,” he whispers into Clint’s ear, his lips tracing its whorls. “ _Clint_.”

The fervent haze of lust engulfing his mind recedes, just a bit, when Clint rears back enough that they can see each other’s faces.

“Phil, do you … do you want the lights shut off?”

Clint is glancing away from him as he asks that, biting his lower lip.

“Hey.” Coulson blinks hard, catching his breath, sliding his hands up to cup Clint’s scalding cheeks. “Hey, if you aren’t comfortable with anything, _anything_ , you know you can tell me.” When Clint nods, he asks, “Do _you_ want the lights shut off?”

The longer it takes for Clint to answer, the quicker the haze of lust recedes from his mind _and_ body.

“Hey.” When he strokes Clint’s cheek with his fingers, when Clint looks at him again with wide, contrite eyes, he says, “If we’re going too fast, if you’re changing your mind, it’s _okay_ , we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to -”

He groans low when Clint seizes his face with both hands and kisses him once more and bites lightly at his lips. He clamps his arms around Clint’s ribs and waist, feeling Clint’s body heat bleed into him.

“I do. _I do_. Oh, I do, babe,” Clint whispers, rubbing at his chest with both hands, rubbing their noses together. “It’s just - you might be _shocked_ or something. I mean it’s …” Clint swallows visibly. “It’s one thing to hear or read or talk about it. It’s - it’s another to _see_ it, ya know?”

Coulson pushes down more of his lust. Palms the span of Clint’s back with both hands, presses their foreheads together while they breathe each other’s air, their chests rising and falling in tandem.

“I don’t want the lights shut off. I want to see you. All of you,” he says plainly, undoubtedly, when Clint looks him in the eye. “I love _all_ of you.”

Clint swallows again, his throat bobbing. Clint gazes at him for another moment more with such alluring, wide eyes. Touches his face, his lips, as if Clint still can’t quite believe that the two of them are here, that they’re really _here_.

There’s no denying his aching, rock-hard cock in his slacks any longer as Clint purposely steps backwards from him, those eyes on his as Clint unbuckles a leather belt and lets those jeans slither down long, lean legs into a heap on the carpeted floor. He’s so fucking turned on that he can’t think of a single one-liner for Clint’s purple boxer-briefs, that he almost forgets to _breathe_ as Clint turns around and starts stripping off said boxer-briefs while climbing onto the bed on his knees.

He now has the perfect view of Clint’s bare, rounded buttocks as Clint arches his back while on hands and knees, glancing at him over a shoulder still covered by that light purplish-white button-down. Whatever it is that Clint sees on his face, it makes Clint lick those luscious lips, makes Clint clasp those boxer-briefs in a fist to a flushed face and rise up and _spread_ those thighs over the bed in one smooth movement. He sees the golden treasure trail adorning Clint ’s flat lower belly. He sees the dense, golden thatch that the trail leads to, sees Clint’s free hand cupping and _stroking_ at what must surely be lush, silken folds below it that _no one else has ever touched_. And no else will, _except him_.

A long, low moan rips loose from his mouth. Before he knows it, his hands have sneaked south and one of them is squeezing the base of his cock over his slacks and his eyes are shutting because he’s already _this_ close to blowing his load, right here in his goddamn pants when he’s never even done that as a teenager.

“Jesus fuck, Clint,” he croaks, and he thinks this is where Clint’s going to laugh at him for suddenly losing so much self-control.

He hears Clint’s ragged breathing instead, the rustling of bed sheets, hears Clint say in an equally ragged voice, “C’mere already, babe.”

Coulson opens his eyes to see Clint now on his elbows and back, those magnificent thighs spread so wide and welcomingly for him. He staggers over to the bed, whipping off his tank top before falling on his hands and knees over Clint and between Clint’s thighs, trying to remember to breathe, _breathe_ as Clint feverishly caresses his naked chest and stomach and runs fingers through the hair on his chest. It’s just like Clint to have the upper hand although he’s the virgin here, pulling his head down and crashing their lips together once more, licking into the seam of his mouth until he isn’t on the brink anymore, until he can draw back and not feel like dying without Clint’s touch upon him.

Clint watches his face as his eyes drink in newly revealed skin and contours framed by Clint’s opened button-down. The dusting of blond hair on Clint’s stuttering chest is soft between his fingers. He’s prepared for the long scars on the underside of each pectoral, and they’re as exquisite as the rest of Clint, just one more symbol of Clint’s courage to be true to himself. Clint gasps when he kisses and laves them with his tongue, moans and arches up when he does the same to Clint’s nipples until they’re rosy and distended. Clint clutches at his head as he licks and sucks his way down Clint’s rippled, firm belly, down that golden treasure trail. Clint gasps again and bucks those lovely hips up when he buries his face into golden thatch of hair on Clint’s mon pubis and breathes in Clint’s scent there, and he starts to pant, knowing that when he lifts his head, he’s going to see a part of Clint that no one else has ever had the _privilege_ of seeing before.

But he does, _he does_. He is the most fortunate bastard in the entire _universe_.

Clint’s breaths are going ragged again, and Clint’s spread thighs are quivering under his palms. He nips the jut of one hip bone then presses open-mouthed kisses to the inside of one thigh. He rises onto his hands slowly, making searing eye contact with Clint for a long moment before letting his gaze fall between Clint’s legs. He’s prepared for the enlarged clitoris and supple, reddened ridges of the vulva too, having done additional research on the transitioning process for trans men after Clint informed him of his status. What he _isn_ _’t_ prepared for is how _breathtaking_ Clint is, how _seductive_ the projection of Clint’s clit is, how _consummate_ the lips of Clint’s labia are, almost symmetrical and alike velvety petals, engorged and glistening with thick, clear fluid from a tiny opening that makes the air hitch in his throat and his erection twitch hard.

The words unfurl from his tongue before he even consciously thinks of them.

“ _You_ _’re beautiful_.”

Clint is staring at his face with huge, incredulous yet elated eyes. Under the bedroom’s ceiling lights, they almost seem to sheen with wetness.

“You really have no idea, do you?” Coulson rasps, watching the arc of Clint’s throat work in a long swallow.

Clint sucks in a shaky breath, swallows again and blinks, then whispers, “I think I do now.”

Clint leans into his touch when he presses one hand to the side of Clint’s face, when he strokes Clint’s cheek with a thumb.

“Can I touch you there? Can I _kiss_ you there? _Lick_ and _suck_ you? _Put my tongue in you_?”

Coulson presses his thumb on Clint’s trembling lower lip, feels Clint’s breaths become even shakier. He waits patiently for his requests to sink in for Clint, for Clint to realize that he isn’t joking and really, really, _really_ wants to do all that.

“You - you really want to?” Clint asks hoarsely against his thumb, gaping up at him in shock.

“Oh, yes. _Yes_ ,” he growls, his teeth glinting in a grin of triumph. “I’m going to _blow your mind_.”

“Oh my god, oh god, _oh god oh oooohhh_ ,” Clint moans loudly when he swoops down and swipes his tongue along the length of Clint’s swollen clit, over and over. He feels Clint’s legs draw up and clamp around his shoulders, his head and he smiles into Clint’s hot flesh and digs his fingers into Clint’s powerful thighs as he sucks the clit into his mouth, kneading his tongue against it. He’s so fucking hard from the delicious _taste_ of Clint, from Clint scratching at his scalp and neck and calling out his _name_ like a litany.

“Phil, Phil, oh, _oh_ , oh fuck, _Phil_!”

Clint’s back bows off the bed when he moves lower and frenziedly licks and sucks on folds puffy with desire and then thrusts his tongue inside Clint, over and over and _over_. Clint sounds like he ’s the one dying now, crying out throatily and panting, digging heels into his upper back, wrenching at his hair and he doesn’t give a _fuck_ if Clint ends up pulling out whatever hair he has left, it’ll be worth it as long as he hits Clint’s sweet spot like this, gets to _savor_ Clint like this and feel Clint shake against him and in his hands as Clint comes with his tongue still inside.

“Oh yeah,” Clint pants out between wavering inhalations after going limp on the bed, “oh, fuck yeah. Oh, Phil.”

Clint whimpers once and squirms as Coulson gives his clit one last lick. When Coulson gets off the bed and stands up, he finds his legs surprisingly steady and his cock unsurprisingly as hard as ever. Pre-come has stained the front of his slacks, and he can feel Clint’s gaze on it, feel Clint gaze on his face like he’s all that matters to Clint. Clint’s button-down has slipped down past broad shoulders to wrap around those burly arms, framing Clint’s torso even more sublimely.

Clint is still regaining his breath as Coulson takes a step back from the bed and unzips his slacks. Clint’s eyes go half-lidded and glassy with unrestrained lust as he pushes his black briefs down along with his slacks, as his rigid cock is freed and smacks against his belly. He knows his cock is slightly wider in girth than average, that while he’s received complaints about his hair, he’s yet to ever receive one about his cock when he’s fucking someone. He’s never been so _hard_ before, never felt so turned _on_ before now, standing tall and grand as Clint whimpers again and tips open wider those long legs and _pants just at the sight of him_.

"Do I get the Clint Barton seal of approval?" Coulson asks with what he really hopes is an unconcerned tone.

"Oh yeah, A plus,” Clint rasps, touching himself between his legs with both hands like he can’t stop himself, licking his lips, “a hundred percent, five stars, the whole shebang, babe."

Coulson can’t stop the grin that splits his face, nor can he stop himself from looking away bashfully for a moment. Clint has told him often enough how attractive he is to Clint, but _this_ , this had been the ultimate test of that, when he isn’t layered in a suit and tie, when he has no killing weapon in hand, no armor and armory to camouflage the regular, flawed man that he is. When it’s just _him_ and nothing else.

And he’s _passed_ , with flying colors.

"Get over here already, you handsome bastard."

Clint is holding out one hand towards him. He’s drawn to it like a butterfly to a flower, grasping it with his own, bringing it to his lips and tasting Clint on those calloused fingers. Clint makes a low, contented noise as he climbs over Clint on all fours on the bed and sucks on Clint’s fingers again before letting them pop out of his mouth.

"I see another very handsome bastard,” he says, and Clint preens at that, bringing a smile to his face. Yes, genuine confidence truly is a wonderful look on Clint -

All of a sudden, he’s flipped onto his back with Clint’s hands pressing his forearms to the bed. Now Clint is the one on top, grinning down at him and causing his smile to grow into a grin too. Oh _yes_ , Clint is _all man_ , strong and flexible and never, ever to be underestimated. He ’s so in love with this man that it _hurts_.

When Clint releases his arms, he reaches up to strip the button-down shirt off Clint. His eyes survey the enticing landscape of skin and muscle that he’d worshiped with his lips and tongue. He pinches one of Clint’s nipples between a thumb and forefinger, and quirks his lips up when Clint squirms again and bites a plump lip. Later, he’ll find out if he can make Clint come just from sucking on his nipples. For now, he knows Clint is craving to do something else, from the ardent way Clint is eying his cock.

“Can I touch you?” Clint asks unevenly, his breaths audible and just as uneven.

“Yes,” Coulson murmurs, and he gets up on his elbows and watches Clint move down his body to get nearer to his erection. It occurs to him as Clint reaches out and grips his cock with his left hand that this is the very first time Clint has touched another man’s cock, and this fact, along with the sensation of _Clint_ _’s hand_ around him, makes him moan sharply. Clint also moans, though softer, as if Clint is enraptured and doesn’t even know he does it.

Coulson begins to breathe hard through his nose as Clint slides his hand over the length of cock, from head to hilt and back. Clint’s grip is assured and _just_ right. His toes curl in the bed sheets when Clint moves his hand swifter and thumbs the head of his cock, when he sees that Clint _is_ enraptured by his cock.

“You’re so hot. So _big_ ,” Clint rasps, staring down at his cock leaking pre-come from the tip. “I can feel your pulse, babe. It’s _fast_.”

“That - that probably has a lot to do with,” he pants, fisting his hands in the bed sheets, “the really hot man jerking me off.”

“Probably,” Clint replies, grinning, and they chuckle at the same time. Clint slows his hand, and bit by bit, Coulson backs down from the edge again, breathing easier, his toes uncurling.

“Is it - is it awkward that I have -” Coulson gestures with one hand at his erection. “That I have one, and you …”

“Hey, I’m not gonna bite your head off if you ask questions,” Clint says gently, eyes warm and crinkled. “I’m still trying to figure all this out myself and _I_ _’m_ the trans guy here. Are you saying, awkward that you have a cock and I don’t?”

Coulson nods silently, thankful for Clint’s understanding.

Clint lets go of his cock with a pat and kiss to its underside and sits back, and says, “I work with what I got, I guess. I’m glad I got plumbing that works right, at least. That works _great_. Sure, it’d be cool if I have an actual cock, but …” Clint gazes at him from beneath long eyelashes as Clint crawls back up to be face to face with him. “Do you know I can come up to eight times in a row if I fuck myself with my fingers or dildo long enough?”

Clint’s slender fingers have gone down between spreading thighs to fondle that sumptuous clit, to frame and pinch it between two fingers. The sight of that, of Clint losing his inhibitions, makes Coulson’s cock jerk hard and his breath snag in his chest.

“And how many times,” Coulson rasps into Clint’s lips as Clint leans down for a kiss, “do you think you can come on _my cock_?”

Clint shuts his eyes and moans loud into his mouth.

“Oh, _babe_. Guess there’s only one way to find out, huh?”

They groan in unison when Clint straddles his hips, when their nether regions slot together without any clothes between them. Clint lets out a high-pitched, lusty sound when he thrusts up and grinds the sensitive underside of his cock against Clint’s labia, when the head of his cock brushes the wet opening of Clint’s shuddering body. They’re kissing again, writhing, trying to find whatever friction they can against each other.

“Ya want - ya want me to _suck you_ first, Phil?” Clint whispers, grinding down on the length of his cock. “Wanna fuck my mouth till you scream and come down my throat?”

Coulson has to squeeze his eyes shut at that image, that image that he’d put into Clint’s head earlier in the evening. Oh, he would _love_ that, love falling apart in front of Clint and let Clint see and _feel_ him shatter under Clint’s hot mouth and tongue.

But now, _now_ he wants to be deep inside Clint. Wants to _come_ inside Clint so deep that he’ll always be a part of Clint.

“I think I’ll fucking _die_ if I’m not _inside you_ soon,” he says bluntly, opening his eyes again, seeing Clint gaze down at him with such trust, such _love_.

“Oh yeah, _oh yeah_ , I’m down with that. I am _so_ down with that.”

When Clint is about to rise up, Coulson reaches up to grasp Clint’s hips with both hands. Clint goes motionless and looks down at him with inquiring, soft eyes.

“Clint. I’m definitely clean.”

“Well, _I_ _’m_ as clean as anybody can get,” Clint says, rolling eyes at himself. “Unless STDs have found a way to infect people through the air instead of, ya know, _sex_.”

Coulson snorts, but also smiles at Clint.

“I know. What I meant was, I’d prefer to not wear a condom, because I want to _feel_ you.” His smile widens at Clint’s low, excited moan, but it also wanes a little as he adds, “But do I need to wear one anyway?”

It takes Clint a few seconds to comprehend what he’s asking about. He can tell when Clint does from the way Clint’s face goes crimson, the way Clint averts his eyes.

“Oh. _That_ ,” Clint mumbles. “I dunno, Phil. I haven’t had my period in _years_ thanks to my HRT. I … _probably_ can’t get pregnant, but …”

“But there’s still a small chance?”

Clint nods, appearing very self-conscious now, shoulder hunched. Clint still isn’t looking at him.

“Clint. I want to make this clear,” he says, brushing one hand over the crown of Clint’s head and down to Clint’s nape, guiding Clint’s eyes back to his. “This, all this does _not_ make you any less a man in my eyes, ever. You don’t know how humbled I am that you’ve given me this privilege to _love_ you this way. Me, of all the _billions_ of people in this world. _Me_.”

He isn’t ashamed of his voice slightly cracking on the last word. He gazes steadfastly back at Clint as Clint caresses his face and neck, as Clint’s throat bobs and lips quaver for an instant.

“I know. I _do_ know,” Clint whispers, gratitude steeped in every word. “I love you. So much. I think I’ve waited my whole life for this. _For you_.”

The taut anticipation between them ratchets up as Coulson stretches out one arm for the bedside drawer to retrieve a condom packet. Coulson puts it on himself without any protest from Clint, both of them acutely aware of how much closer he’ll be to shooting like a rocket if Clint touches his cock now. Once he’s done and partially sitting up with pillows propping him up, Clint is straddling him again and he nips at Clint’s arching neck and sucks love bites into Clint’s heaving chest. With one hand, he helps Clint line up his cock with Clint’s dripping wet hole, and oh, it is _dripping_ , so much that Clint’s inner thighs are getting streaked.

“Oh fuck, Phil, _finally_ ,” Clint breathes against his lips, then hangs his golden head to watch the hot head of his cock start to push in, parting Clint’s reddened lips below.

As the head pops in past the tight ring, as Clint grunts and then moans long and _loud_ at the stretch, Coulson presses their foreheads together and watches too and grits out, “When we get you a strap on, I want you to _fuck me_ too. Feel you deep inside me until I _lose my mind_.”

Clint groans at that, at the burn as his cock slides another inch in.

“Fuck, _yes_ , I want that too, I -”

Coulson starts to feel light-headed as Clint sinks down, like all the air in the room’s been suctioned out. Clint’s whimpering as he takes in more and more of his cock, but there’s no discomfort in the sound, only pure pleasure. Clint is so fucking _tight_ , hard muscle pulsing and _clenching_ around him. Halfway down, Clint’s whole body starts to tremble. He thinks he’s trembling too, putting his self-discipline to its most challenging trial yet, gripping Clint’s hips so hard in order to not thrust up before Clint’s ready, to let Clint remain in control. In the morning, Clint will be admiring the ten, purpling bruises on his hips in the bathroom mirror, and Coulson will be lifting Clint onto the sink vanity while Clint wraps those long, lean legs around his hips and then they’ll be making love again, as furiously as this first time.

“Clint, sweetheart,” he murmurs when Clint tips his head up towards the ceiling and trembles even harder. “Are you okay?”

He mouths hotly at Clint’s shoulder, traveling up Clint’s bared neck with open-mouthed, noisy kisses. When Clint bows his head to gaze down at him again, he can see that Clint’s eyes are totally hazy with pleasure, pupils blown wide, mouth open and panting.

“You feel so _good_ ,” Clint whispers, mouth hanging open even more, going tense as he pushes down and takes the last few inches fast and _hard_.

Both of them cry out when Clint finally rests flush in the cradle of Coulson’s pelvis. Clint is rhythmically squeezing his whole length in a vise-like grip, arching against him and letting out hoarse, stuttering moans like he can’t help it, like he’s already _there_ but is fighting it tooth and nail and _oh god_ , oh fuck, does he know what that feels like, being on the verge himself.

“ _Sshh_ , I got you,” Coulson says, embracing Clint with one hand on the back of Clint’s neck and the other spanning the middle of Clint’s back. “Don’t worry. I got you.”

He carefully rolls them over so Clint is on his back on the bed with him still fully seated inside. Clint’s arms and legs frantically latch around his shoulders and waist. He rubs soothingly at Clint’s quivering belly, presses more open-mouthed, noisy kisses to the crook between Clint’s neck and shoulder as he plucks one of the pillows nearby to tuck it under Clint’s hips and lower back. He’s getting so hooked on the gasps that feel like they’re being dragged out of Clint’s lungs, on the way Clint sounds, the way Clint’s body _looks_ when it’s bowed like this under him, muscles bunched and defined under flushed skin.

“Don’t move. Don’t move yet,” Clint gasps into his ear.

He rises up enough to lean his forehead against Clint’s, forcing his eyes to stay at least half-open so he can keep gazing at Clint, at Clint’s eyes scrunched shut with so much pleasure he looks like he’s in pain. They pant harshly into each other’s mouths, clinging onto each other and feeling dizzy and lost in the fire-hot union of their straining bodies.

“If you move, I’m - I’m gonna _blow_ in ten seconds tops, in one, _two thrusts_ -”

Coulson groans, his own eyes squeezing shut as he desperately does his best to keep still. He’s already made Clint come once tonight, but that isn’t enough, that’s nowhere close to enough. He has to stay still, _stay hard_ until he’s turned Clint into an absolutely limp, exhausted, _satisfied_ mess and by gods-that-aren’t-gods, _he_ _’ll do it_.

“Rotting garbage … slimy worms … _infected wounds_.”

It takes Coulson way too long to figure out what Clint’s doing, but when he does, his shoulders begin to shake with mirth.

“Maggots in _gums_ ,” he joins in, snickering breathlessly when Clint grimaces up at him and makes a sound of disgust even as he snickers too. “ _Oozing rashes_.”

“Bennett in a _bikini_ ,” Clint says, laughing louder.

“ _Nick_ in a bikini, a skimpy one dotted with _teddy bears_ ,” Coulson says, shaking even more with mirth, and oh, _oh_ , there it is, that jaunty, mellifluous laugh.

“Betty and Fury … having a _food fight naked in the mess hall!_ ”

The image of Nick and Betty, spindly and white-haired Betty who’s a _great_ -grandmother, pelting each other with food while _nude_ in the mess hall as everyone else watches in horror, is what cracks Coulson up. He guffaws, letting his head drop onto Clint’s shoulder. Clint is laughing too, for several seconds before suddenly moaning stridently and _biting his shoulder_. It’s far from hard enough to break any skin, but he grunts in surprise anyway, the sensation actually helping him to cool a bit.

Clint is shuddering as he says with a tremulous voice against his neck, “Oh fuck, _fuuuck_ , when ya _laugh_ like that, you - you feel _so fucking big_ inside me and it’s like you’re _vibrating_ , oh, _you feel so good_.”

Hunger consumes Coulson whole in that moment, radiating out from within his chest and lower belly, his _core_ , deluging every muscle and stand-out vein in his throbbing body. He feels the last vestiges of his control being swept away, feels his hips drawing back, pulling inch by inch out of Clint until only the head of his cock is still inside and he can’t stop, _he can_ _’t stop anymore_ -

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I have to move, I -”

Clint strokes his head and chest feverishly, already panting again, spreading trembling thighs as wide as they can go.

“S’okay, babe, go for it, fuck me,” Clint rasps. “ _Make me scream_.”

His hiss of utter pleasure at the first thrust in to the hilt is wiped out by Clint’s shout of even more blatant pleasure. He seizes Clint’s hips with his hands once more, presses their foreheads together and then he’s fucking fast and _hard_ into Clint, keeping his thrusts short at first to give Clint time to get used to him. Clint had been mistaken in thinking that he’ll come after only two thrusts, for it’s on the ninth one, the one when Coulson shoves back in until he can’t get any deeper inside Clint that Clint comes for the second time tonight, convulsing and fisting one hand in the short, dark hair on the back of his bowed head and whining out his name.

“ _You_ feel so good, sweetheart,” he says, watching Clint’s eyelids flutter over glossed over eyes, watching Clint’s face go slack and Clint’s open mouth curve into a delirious grin. “You’re so _gorgeous_ , just the way you are.”

“Phil,” Clint whispers, tugging him down for a sloppy, passionate kiss.

He watches Clint throw his head back against the bed sheets and hears Clint cry out wantonly as he changes angle and speeds up. He smiles even as he pants and props himself up on both hands on the bed above Clint’s shoulders, giving Clint several rough thrusts perfectly aimed at that sweet spot inside Clint.

“You like that, Clint? Hm? You like me _filling you up_ like this?”

“ _Aahh_ , P-Phil! _Phil_!”

He feels Clint’s fingernails scouring red lines down his back, feels Clint’s hands grab his buttocks and squeeze them and pull at them with each thrust, as if Clint wants him deeper, _deeper_ until he can never get out.

“I wanna ride you, Phil. P- _please_ lemme -”

He’s got them rolling over again before Clint can finish the stammered plea, rolling onto his back with both arms clamped around Clint’s waist. Clint wastes no time in fucking himself on his cock with knees braced on either side of him, rising until he’s almost popping out of Clint and then slamming down until their skin slaps, wresting yells out of them both.

“Ah! _Aaahhh_! Fuck, Phil! _Fuck_!”

“Yes, fuck _yes_.”

Clint is arching his back and neck yet again, hands braced on Coulson’s chest, over his hammering heart that feels like it’s going to _burst_ at the sight and _sensation_ of Clint willingly vulnerable and glorious and _so fucking beautiful_ like this. He holds onto Clint’s taut arms and lets Clint ride him a while longer, until he begins to feel Clint’s thighs quake and Clint’s momentum falter. He draws Clint to his chest and rubs Clint’s bowed back with both hands.

He luxuriates in Clint’s piercing moans and whimpers against his ear as he slams up ruthlessly into Clint’s hot, pliant body. The constant slap of their bodies only electrifies him more, as does Clint coiling up from the pleasure and burying a burning face into his neck in a failed effort to muffle moans and groans escalating in volume. Clint’s mouth is open against his skin, scorching it with rapid breaths.

“Fuck me harder, please, need you, _love you_ ,” Clint says, sounding like he’s sobbing too, and with a fucking incredible stamina he didn’t realize he _had_ until tonight, Coulson’s gripping Clint securely and picking him up and shoving Clint up against the bed’s headboard and wall, and then they’re crashing their lips together as Clint’s arms and legs tighten around his shoulders and waist. Not once, not _once_ does he forget how _strong_ and _limber_ Clint is, how much Clint can _take_ and _god_ , he has _so much to give_.

He gives Clint precisely what Clint’s demanded for, drilling into Clint’s tight, wet _heat_ , invigorated by every wail that rips from Clint’s throat, by Clint eventually becoming so overwhelmed by pleasure that he can only wheeze and thrash between his thrusting body and the headboard. He bites into the firm muscle of Clint’s shoulder, rejoicing in the quaking of Clint’s thighs and the intense pressure of Clint’s inner muscles around his plunging cock as Clint comes once more.

Eventually, he goes into a head-space that he can only describe as sacramental, every cell of his body working in unified resolve to make Clint come and come and _come_ again. He’s lost count by the time he’s fucking Clint from behind, with Clint sprawled out on his belly and tearing at the bed sheets and looking like he’s gone some place higher than heaven too, almost-shut eyes wet, mouth open and trembling. The air in their bedroom feels as thick as molasses. At some point, their pillows have been kicked off the bed, and one of the bedside lamps has toppled over. He doesn’t remember any of this happening, only the loving heat of Clint’s kisses all over his face, the tight heat of Clint’s body that fits him like Clint was created just for _him_ , the sweet heat in Clint’s broken voice as Clint says his name.

They’re both drenched with perspiration. Their skin slips smoothly as Coulson presses his chest to Clint’s back and slides one arm around Clint’s chest and up to palm the width of Clint’s neck. Clint rests a golden head on his shoulder, and he can’t resist kissing Clint again, angling their heads to get his tongue deeper into Clint’s mouth like his cock - his fucking _insatiable_ cock, Jesus - is inside Clint.

“Aren’t you … a-aren’t you gonna _come_ , babe?”

Clint has to swallow a few times before asking that. Clint sounds like he’s swallowed shards of glass, gravelly and scarcely above a whisper. Clint’s pupils are still blown wide open. There’s a constant tremor running through Clint’s entire body, as if Clint is reaching breaking point, going to literally come apart.

Coulson kisses him again, then says huskily, “Eight times.”

For appearing and sounding as _obliterated_ as Clint does, Clint immediately knows what he means and intends.

“Oh god. _Oh my god_.” Clint shuts his eyes, swallows long and visibly. “I can’t - I can’t even remember how many times I’ve already come. I - I don’t … I don’t think I can _take_ anymore.”

A frisson of worry zigzags down Coulson’s spine. Before he can say anything, Clint says, gazing up at him, “I’m okay. S’okay, come, Phil. Come for me. Please. I wanna see your face. _I wanna feel you come inside me_ , ” and now it’s _his_ body that ’s starting to tremble from head to toe, knowing that it’s time, _it_ _’s time_.

He lets his eyes flicker shut for a second. Plants a long, tender kiss to Clint’s high forehead.

“Okay, sweetheart. As you wish.”

Clint won’t let him withdraw completely as Clint maneuvers himself onto his back and clinches those amazing thighs around his waist. They moan together at the pleasurable friction, Clint more so when he thrusts in to the hilt once again and stays deep in there for a minute.

“C’mon, babe, give it to me,” Clint whispers into his lips, clutching at his ass with both hands.

He gives Clint another long, tender kiss, and then, with palms pushing against the bed, he lets go completely and thrusts in and out of Clint with deep, fraying breaths, with everything he’s got. Clint slides calloused hands up and across his flexing back, craning a long neck to kiss his face repeatedly.

“Yeah, that’s it, _that_ _’s it_. You feel so fucking good in me.”

“Clint, I -” he breathes hard, his thrusts going erratic as his orgasm approaches and oh, _oh damn_ , it’s going to be a _big one_. “Fuck, I - _I love you_. I’m so damn _in love with you_ , so happy I’ve found you - never leave you, never, _never_ -”

He’s able to keep his eyes open long enough to see Clint’s wide, glistening ones staring up at him, to see Clint smile that rarest, closed-lipped smile at him. When his head dips down to press their foreheads together, he feels Clint’s hand cupping and stroking the back of his neck.

“Oh yeah, fill me up, just like this,” Clint murmurs. “ _Put your baby in me_ -”

He thrusts once, twice, _thrice_ and then he’s gone, _gone_ , bucking and shuddering hard and letting out a strident groan when he thinks he may be _dying_ from this surfeit of pleasure he’s never, ever felt before. Stars explode into blue and white lightning behind his eyelids. Pure, beatific bliss rocks through his lower body and legs like a raging storm of fire, pounding him into submission, making his knees buckle, making him too _weak_ to do anything else except collapse onto Clint with jagged breathing.

When he can _think_ again, process what’s going on beyond his enervated, _satiated_ body, he feels Clint’s lips all over his face.

“You’re _unbelievable_ ,” Clint says into his mouth, after he’s no longer shuddering and twitching and he’s calmed down as much as he’ll ever be while still inside Clint’s tight heat. “I love you, _I love you so much_.”

“You just love my incredible, hard cock,” he says, sounding like _he_ _’s_ swallowed glass too.

“Yeah, that too,” Clint replies, deadpan for a moment before cracking up into a low, easy laugh that gets him going too. He really can’t get enough of Clint laughing, of Clint being _happy_.

Reluctant as he is to withdraw from Clint’s body, he knows Clint has to be sore by now. Cautiously, languidly, he pulls out, and when Clint hisses and bites his lip as the head of his softening cock pops out, he feels pissed off at himself for not being more considerate, more _gentle_ -

“Hey. No.”

Clint grasps his face with both hands, draws his gaze back to Clint’s beautiful, blue eyes.

“Stop that. You did _not_ hurt me, Phil.” Clint strokes his cheeks with both thumbs. “I may be feeling a little _raw_ right now, but that’s what happens when I just had the most _awesome, no-holds-barred_ _sex in my life_. So don’t you _dare_ apologize for it either.”

Clint allows him to examine him between his legs anyway, and he’s damn relieved to see that Clint is just inflamed and that there’s no blood or any injury. His anger at himself is swiftly replaced by almost suffocating affection for this tremendous, wonderful man. He can’t help caressing the outer lips of Clint’s labia with the back of his fingers, can’t help the quirk of his lips at Clint’s almost inaudible gasp and thighs quavering for a few seconds at the contact. Clint is so damn sensitive down here. It’s so damn _hot_.

And Clint is his. _His_ , _alone_.

“You’ve only had sex with me,” he says, straight-faced, after crawling back up Clint’s supple body on all fours to kiss Clint again and _again_.

He expects some droll response to that, something along the lines of Clint rolling his eyes and suggesting to put an ad out on every news station and the internet to proclaim that the renowned Hawkeye _was_ a virgin until Phillip J. Coulson fucked him into oblivion.

Instead, Clint gazes up at him with eyes so large and ingenuous, brimming with all the stars in the universe.

“You. Only you,” Clint says, stroking his cheek, and he hears the lifelong vow in Clint’s voice so plainly and undoubtedly that he feels so _minuscule_ compared to it.

Clint hums into his mouth when he swoops down for more kisses, boneless on their bed and replete. He keeps kissing Clint until Clint regains the energy to kiss back, and they still are, their eyes shut as Clint removes the condom from his cock and ties it and chucks it at the trash basket on the other side of the room. Naturally, Clint doesn’t miss. They chuckle into each other’s mouths before kissing again.

“Love you, Phil,” Clint murmurs, over and over, and Coulson thinks to himself that he will never, _ever_ tire of hearing Clint say those words to him, even after all the stars and planets and nebulae have languished to the darkness and endlessness of Time.

 

<<< >>>

 

After taking a much needed shower together (and making love again, under the massaging downpour of heated water with Clint clutching and moaning at a tiled wall while he lazily thrust into Clint), they’re back in bed, swaddled in blankets in a fortress of pillows. Clint is resting that lovely head of golden hair on his chest, tucked under his chin.

“I dreamed about you, long before we met,” Clint murmurs into his skin as he traces cursive motifs of love into Clint’s with his fingertips. “I saw you in your midnight blue, pin-striped suit. And your purple, paisley tie. I saw you smiling at me, waiting for me and sometimes, most times, it was the only thing that kept me from giving up on life, on everything.”

“I dreamed about you too, long before we met,” he says, clasping Clint closer to him, pressing his lips to Clint’s forehead. “I didn’t know what you looked like at the time, though. All I knew was that something tremendous, something _wonderful_ was coming my way. That I had to hold on, no matter what, to find that tremendous, wonderful thing. To find _you_.”

Clint rises up onto his elbows, and they move in unison so that they’re lying on their sides facing each other, their heads sharing one pillow, their noses grazing and their crinkled eyes warming each other. Coulson tucks the blankets back around their shoulders.

“Hi,” Clint says, his lips curving up into that sweet, soft and happy smile.

“Hi,” he says in return, his own lips quirking into that not-smile that has always been a smile solely for Clint. “It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

And so high up, higher than the stars and the planets and nebulae can ever hope to be, higher than heaven itself, Desire sighs dreamily to themselves, resting their twelve, rainbow-haired, one-eyed heads atop a giant, six-fingered hand with contentment. Despair, lingering behind their brother-sister as a black, dessicated husk of a tree light years tall and wide, is also smiling. Despair even chuckles to themselves as they watch the two humans tumble into slumber together, their faces nestled together and their arms enfolding each other under the blankets.

Their brother-sister has had their time of enjoyment. Soon, _very_ soon, it shall be _their_ turn for an exquisite banquet of pain and suffering, and it will be a _beautiful_ thing indeed.

 


	7. Part III (2 of 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa, this turned out to be a monster of an update, at _21,000+ words_. (Yeah, I dunno what is up with me either.) This update is so very much not safe for work like the previous one, and will also very likely give you a fuck load of Clint/Coulson feels. And probably make you wanna hug Clint. And maybe Coulson too. (And maybe make you like Fury a little more.)
> 
> In regards to the medical issues brought up in this part, I did my best to research as much as I could to be accurate but still, I apologize in advance if I accidentally screw up with them in any way. 
> 
> And because I am a _complete_ mushbag, I listened to the following song and soundtrack too while writing this part:   
> 
> [Sade - By Your Side](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C8QJmI_V3j4)   
>  [Braveheart OST - The Secret Wedding](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cXWwAjwJe4E)

<<< >>>

 

In retrospect, Clint thinks that he should have known far better than to assume that bruised kidneys were to blame for the bloodstains on his underwear more than once.

“Aw, kidneys, _no_ ,” he’d mumbled two days after his showdown with Bennett in the Helicarrier, sitting on the toilet in the restroom attached to Phil’s medical bay room with his pants down, staring at said bloodstains. It was hardly the first time his kidneys’ been pummeled bad enough for him to bleed. (The Swordsman made sure of that.)

He’d been much more concerned for Phil then, who had awakened from his emergency surgery just hours before. He hadn’t told Phil about the brawl with Bennett, hadn’t told _anyone_ about Bennett punching the crap out of him and his kidneys and he figured, okay, he’d rebounded from that before without any medical intervention. What was the harm of him doing that again when Phil got it way worse than he did and needed him around, right?

And the month before, he’d gotten into a brutal fistfight with a gang - a horde? a hood? a _murder_? - of freaking _ninja_ in Xi’an, China (and why not Japan, he doesn’t know either). And the month before that, he’d taken on three grizzly, steroid-pumped guys who were more bulging muscle and vein than human in an alley during a brief undercover mission in Phoenix, Arizona. _And_ being Clint Barton, with the kind of luck he’s got, _all_ those fuckers had at least one go at his sides, like his kidneys had neon signs the size of the Avengers Tower that shrieked, “COME GET ME, BAD GUYS, _I LOVE PAIN_.”

“Jeez, kidneys, ya gotta stop getting _hit_ so much, okay?” he’d muttered while laying down several sheets of tissue paper on the stained bottom panel of his underwear. “This is not good for you and me.”

When Clint does finally tell Phil about the bloodstains showing on his underwear, about the _real_ reason they appeared, the wound in Phil’s flank has already healed. So have Clint’s bruised kidneys, which is a good thing all around, really.

Carrying a baby to full term can be _pretty_ damn stressful on the body already without bruised kidneys on top of that.

 

 <<< >>>

 

The first time Clint throws up from morning sickness, he has no idea that’s what it is. He’s in the open-plan kitchen on the common floor for the Avengers, cooking up a hearty breakfast of poached eggs, sliced bacon and sausages, pancakes and toast with jam and butter with Bruce for the team sans Thor (who’s in New Mexico with his Lady Jane) and Phil (who’s on a mission without him in Nairobi) when the intense nausea clouts him in the belly like a punch. He freezes on the spot in front of the stove where a bunch of sausages are still frying on a pan, unable to speak. It isn’t until Bruce - who’s in a white button down and chinos, scooping out the poached eggs from another frying pan onto plates - says his name that he can move again, pressing one hand hard over his mouth and lurching away from the stove towards the nearest restroom. He hears Bruce saying his name again, feels Natasha’s eyes on him, but he still can’t speak, he feels so _sick_ , why the hell does he -

He has enough presence of mind left to shut the restroom door before falling to his knees on tiled, marble floor and vomiting everything in his belly into the toilet. Oh jeez, he is so glad he hasn’t eaten breakfast yet, which means all he pukes out is sour bile and some icky, yellow stuff that _may_ be the shrimp linguine he ate last night. It doesn’t taste so great coming back up.

It’s over in minutes. After flushing the toilet and standing up to rinse his mouth in the sink, he’s … a-okay again. Like he was never nauseated.

“Huh,” he says to his reflection that’s dressed in a snug, black t-shirt and jeans, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

If this is food poisoning, it’s got to be some _new_ kind of poisoning. He’s never recovered so fast from nausea before.

Ah, well. He isn’t going to complain.

He returns to the kitchen to find that Bruce has already finished cooking and serving all the food. He makes an apologetic face at Bruce, who responds with that patented, mellow smile and asks, “You all right? You looked a little, _ah_ , green.”

Clint waves a hand as he says, “Yeah, I’m okay, Doc. Just didn’t feel too good for a moment, there.”

Bruce nods and simply says, “Okay,” in that zen-chill way that makes Clint like him so much. Phil likes the guy too, and if somebody’s good in Phil’s book, they’re good in _his_ books too. (The opposite doesn’t quite work, though, since Phil and Tony seem to have some kind of comical _ego rivalry_ or something going on but he _likes_ Tony anyway. Tony’s a genuinely good guy, even if the guy himself swears otherwise.)

 _Phil_.

The mere thought of Phil’s name is enough to make him go still again, but in the best way, the kind of way that makes him feel like the floor’s gone from underneath his feet, like he’s an evergreen leaf being blown up, up, _up_ by a summer breeze. Thinking of Phil’s name makes him think of the guy himself, of Phil’s eyes when they crease on the corners and glint with amusement, of Phil’s lips when Phil gives him that charming not-smile that no one but him can see, of Phil’s _tongue_ when Phil kisses him and _licks_ him and _pushes inside him_ -

He can feel Natasha’s eyes on him again, twinkling this time and ah, shit, his face must be _red_ again because even _Steve_ , clean-shaven and in a blue t-shirt and sweatpants, is smiling at him from the rectangular dining table arranged parallel to the kitchen’s island.

He rolls his eyes as he joins the others at the table and wills his stupid face to stop burning already, ignoring Tony’s snicker. He sits with Natasha, who’s in an emerald green sweater and jeans, to his left and Bruce to his right, facing Tony who’s wearing a white tank top and black jeans. When Phil’s around, Phil sits where Bruce is right now. When Phil’s around, when everyone else is busy eating or chatting, he and Phil will be busy trying to behave like the mature, civilized men they’re supposed to be, trying not to eat _each other_.

It’s just _stupefying_ how much they still want to bang each other’s brains out after almost two months of being lovers. You’d think that all that _savage_ sex they had in their apartment in the week after their Big Date would have burned away _some_ of the desire but _nooo_ , it just made them want to fuck _more_.

And oh god, did they do just _that_ for the following couple of weeks, especially after their first mission as SHIELD handler and asset _and_ lovers. It’d been a unique kind of hell to don his specialist agent visage and shove all his feelings into a locked box in his mind, to act as if Phil was simply Agent Coulson, his handler and not the Love of His Life who thinks of _him_ as _Phil_ _s_ Love of His Life. Funny thing, too, it’d actually _helped_ that their relationship is public knowledge now, with fellow SHIELD agents collectively telling him and Phil, “Christ on a cheese-stick, you two idiots sure took your _sweet time_ hopping into bed together. Good riddance to all that _unresolved sexual tension_!” (Apparently Agents Moore and Chowdhury netted themselves a fuck load of dough from the long-running betting pool on when he and Phil would get it on, second only to a mysterious winner whose name Phil is almost a hundred percent sure is spelled N-I-C-K F-U-R-Y.)

The instant he and Phil walked through the front door of their apartment after debriefing on the Helicarrier, that was _it_ , man. Clothes were ripped off and sent flying through the air to land on the floor or on random furniture nearby, and they were kissing and fondling each other like _crazy_ and they didn’t even make it to the couch, they just went _down_ on the carpeted floor in the living room like they were blown off their feet by a hurricane. Phil still had his pants on, unzipped and pushed down to mid-thigh and oh man, it’d been so _hot_ when Phil fucked him from behind on all fours, linking their hands and pressing them onto the floor, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the back and side of his neck over and over, _thrusting_ into him over and over and _over_ -

Okay, yeah, new rule: He’s got to stop thinking about Phil while in _anyone'_ _s_ presence, or figure out a way to control his sympathetic nervous system. For once, for _once_ he’s thanking fuck that he doesn’t have a cock that’ll betray his inner contemplations even more.

 _Fuck_. Why did Fury have to send Phil all the way to _Nairobi_ on a mission _now_? Without _him_?

One more week to go. Just one more week, Barton, _you can do this_.

God, he misses Phil so much.

“ _So_ , Legolas,” Tony drawls, utterly deadpan (and sometimes Tony’s deadpan expression can give Phil’s a run for its money, no lie). “How many times did you and Agent Mush Daddy fuck before he left last week?”

Clint hurls a piece of buttered toast at Tony’s forehead and hits it dead center to everyone’s amusement. Clint cracks up laughing when it bounces off Tony’s forehead like a tennis ball and Tony slaps a hand over the impact area while whining like a baby about it. Steve is beetroot red but trying not to laugh at the same time, those extensive shoulders shaking silently. Bruce is grinning behind a hand over his mouth, looking down at his plate and poking a piece of honey-doused pancake with a fork. Natasha’s face is utterly expressionless, which means she’s laughing her ass off deep inside (and she takes extra glee in anything that involves Tony being embarrassed, he knows that).

“Tony!” Steve says when he’s able to speak without laughing aloud. “That is a really improper question to ask someone at the breakfast table.”

“Does that mean there _is_ a proper place to ask an improper question like that, Cap?” Tony asks, still rubbing at his forehead with one palm.

“No!”

“Admit it, Cap. You’re just as curious.”

“I am not!” Steve exclaims, eyes wide with indignation. Then to Clint, he says, “I am not. _I am not_. What you do with Agent Coulson is your business, and your business alone.”

The thought of Steve imagining him and Phil having sex is … _hilarious_. And … rather _hot_. Yeah. He can’t _wait_ to tell Phil that his childhood hero’s been wondering what they’re like in bed, too. Phil’s going to flip out for sure. Maybe he’ll casually comment that he’s told Steve how big his _cock_ is (which he hasn’t, but he _may_ ), and see how fast Phil hits the Tower’s roof from the mortification.

Ah, Phil and his lifelong crush on Captain America is so _cute_.

“Thanks, Cap,” Clint says, his lips tremoring.

“You and Agent Sugar Daddy only got yourselves to blame, you know,” Tony says to him, deadpan once more, chewing on a jam-slathered piece of toast. “You guys _knew_ that the moment you walked out of the Tower _hand in hand_ and _kissed each other in public_ that _eeeeeverybody_ is gonna be all up in your business.”

“Yeah, well, that doesn’t mean _eeeeeverybody_ has _permission_ to do that,” he shoots back, forking up a piece of bacon to his mouth. “I got _rights_ , ya know. This is a free country! I can go out on a date with my _boyfriend_ and _kiss him_ wherever and whenever I want to. So _there_!”

“I’m not saying you can’t, not at all,” Tony says, and Clint knows he’s telling the truth. Clint also knows now that Steve isn’t so red-faced like that just because of what Tony said earlier. There’s something else that’s making Steve flush like that and glance at him with - yeah, Tony’s called it - _curious_ eyes like that. It’s so easy to forget that Steve had spent over _seventy years_ frozen in ice in an ocean, and that in those passing decades, so much had changed in the world. Steve’s world before becoming entombed had been a world where people who weren’t heterosexual had to hide who and what they were, to pretend to be who and what they _weren_ _’t_ , just to stay unharmed and alive. It was a world where said people were imprisoned in death camps with pink triangles pinned on them, starved and tortured to death, with next to no hope of rescue for years if they stayed alive until World War II ended.

What would someone like Steve think of him and Phil as lovers? Male lovers who’re open and _proud_ about it, and nothing at all like the stereotypes of gay or bisexual men?

If Steve isn’t privately homophobic - and he’s quite sure Steve isn’t and he really, _really_ hopes not, for Phil’s sake - it must totally be blowing Steve away. And if he should ever inform the other guys on the team about being a _trans man_ … jeez, that would probably make Steve’s brain go kaboom.

“So, you’re saying …”

“What I’m saying, Birdbrain, is that getting hounded by the press and pap and the _world_ comes part and parcel with being world famous,” Tony says, solemn now, and yeah, _Tony_ would know a thing or two about that, all right. “And if you can’t handle even _one_ question like that about your relationship with Coulson? The Avengers’ liaison with SHIELD? _Your handler_? They are gonna _crush_ you the first chance they get. Sink whatever _hook_ they can and just dig in until they’re bored of _consuming_ you.”

The mood at the table has somewhat sobered, although the affection among them is still evident. Bruce gives Clint a pat on the shoulder. Natasha gazes speculatively at Tony who gazes right back with that still solemn expression (and Clint has to give props to Tony for being able to do that when so many other men have quailed under the same gaze). After giving Bruce an amiable, small smile, Clint glances at Steve and finds the other blond guy on the team quiet and introspective, looking down at his almost empty plate and pushing around a sausage slice with a fork. Clint can’t really tell what Steve’s thinking right now, which is something new since Steve, for all his experience with live entertainment performances and schmoozing with the brass during the war, can be as easy to read as a children’s book. Sometimes, Steve wears his heart on his sleeve so obviously that even _Phil_ \- in whose eyes Steve is pretty much _holy_ \- gets a little worried now and then about Steve coping with the present world without his cowl and shield.

Whatever it is that Steve thinks about him and Phil, about the various sexualities that exist, they’ll find out sooner or later.

“I hear you, all right?” he says to Tony. Then he raises an eyebrow, a damn near perfect imitation of Phil doing the same (that only he knows because Phil’s the King of Deadpan around everybody else). “But you still deserved the toast to the forehead.”

He and Tony stare at each other with poker faces, he drumming the fingers of his left hand on the table, Tony munching on buttered pancake.

Then Tony says, still poker-faced, “So. How many times?” and Clint can’t help smirking and shaking his head for a few seconds. Man, he really does like this guy. They’re so _alike_ sometimes.

He leans forward, eyes abruptly heavy-lidded and sultry, running his tongue across his lower lip.

“Enough that I can still _feel_ him,” he rasps, shimmying on his seat, wriggling his shoulders and twisting his body in a sensuous dance (just like he did naked on Phil’s lap on the third night after their Big Date, grinding down on Phil’s hard cock until Phil couldn’t take it anymore and threw him down on the bed and took _him_ ).

Tony’s brown eyes crinkle as he chuckles, but there is also an impressed gleam in said eyes. Bruce is now the one shaking his head, smiling at his and Tony’s antics. Steve is so _red_ that he really does look like he’s going to go kaboom, and hiding his face behind a giant mug of coffee is doing absolutely nothing to hide the blush.

“Children,” Natasha says while rolling her eyes. But later, she grasps his hand under the table and looks at him with benevolent eyes that tell him of her happiness for him, for finally finding happiness himself.

Yeah. He’s never been happier. It feels _great_ to be happy. It really does.

What doesn’t feel so great is vomiting again the next morning.

“Th’ hell?” he mumbles, disoriented and clumsy as the intense nausea strikes him once more, so bad that it’d woken him up from a deep slumber. He struggles out of the bed that feels so empty without Phil in it and dashes to the bathroom, barely holding himself together with his left hand over his mouth as he shoves open the door. He hunches over the toilet bowl while standing up, one hand on the ceramic lid of the toilet tank as he spews similar icky stuff like he did yesterday morning.

And like yesterday morning, he’s a-okay again by the time he’s brushing his teeth and rinsing his mouth. It’s damn _bizarre_. What kind of food poisoning _is_ this?

Yeesh, maybe he needs to avoid shrimp linguine for a while. (It was _delicious_ though.)

By the time he’s at the archery range one floor down, shooting and testing out several new prototypes of arrows that Tony’s been developing for him and having a ball as usual, he’s forgotten all about the vomiting.

Until it happens _again_ the following morning.

He almost doesn’t make it to the bathroom from the bed this time. On his knees in front of the toilet bowl, he dry-heaves for a while before the nausea passes. The sour stench in the air is seriously getting to him this time. He doesn’t recover as quick either, and he thinks that maybe his body’s finally losing to whatever bad food he did eat in the past few days, except he hasn’t suffered any stomach pains or fever or, _ugh_ , diarrhea. (Please, no diarrhea, please please please.)

Then he vomits the next morning. _Again_.

“Okay, fuck this,” he mutters to his naked reflection in the bathroom mirror, wiping one hand over his mouth, hating the empty space next to him where Phil should be. “I’m going to the doc. I don’t care.”

The doc in question ends up being Dr. Tam Chiew, whom he’s met a few times at SHIELD’s New Year parties here on the Helicarrier. He remembers her to be really cool and a great sport at singing karaoke despite professing to be horrendous at it. He also remembers her to be SHIELD’s obstetrics and gynecology specialist.

Now why the heck did his regular doc (and endocrinologist), Dr. Sheridan, send him to _her_? Did Doc Sheridan find something in his urine sample or what? Doc Sheridan’s the one who knows about his trans status and helps him out with all his necessary treatments. Dr. Chiew _doesn'_ _t_.

Dr. Chiew’s scarcely five feet tall with an ageless, smooth face and black, straight hair, but there’s _something_ about her that makes you sit up straighter when she strides into the room, makes you focus on her with all your senses.

“Good afternoon, Agent Barton,” Dr. Chiew says with a cordial smile, shutting the consultation room door behind her.

“Hey, Doc,” he greets in return, sitting on a stretcher with his lower legs hanging off its side, crossing his arms over his chest, suddenly and inexplicably glad that he’s in his Hawkeye outfit. Goosebumps have popped up all over his arms. He rubs at his bare upper arms with both hands, and in hindsight, he would recognize it, along with the crossed arms, as a sign that his subconscious already knew what had happened to him, sending him straight into fight or flight mode without _telling_ him why. “Call me Clint, okay?”

Dr. Chiew stands in front of him, gripping a SHIELD comm pad to her abdomen with both hands.

“All right. Clint, I need to ask you a few questions, okay?”

He shrugs, his expression mild.

“Sure.” More goosebumps pop up across his chilled skin, but he says with a steady voice, “Uh, when Doc Sheridan asked me for an urine sample earlier, she said it was to test for _dehydration_?”

Dr. Chiew hears his inferred question loud and clear: What am I doing seeing _you_ instead?

“Yes, she did tell me that. You mentioned throwing up for four consecutive mornings after eating ... shrimp linguine?”

“It _was_ really good shrimp linguine,” Clint says, shrugging again.

Dr. Chiew smiles at that, then says, “Well, as a precaution, particularly for specialist agents like yourself, we always run a broad spectrum of tests to rule out any other possible conditions to get as accurate a diagnosis as possible. After running the tests, Dr. Sheridan referred your case to me since your current condition is not under her specialty but mine.”

Something in Clint’s chest clenches painfully. His fingers clench just as painfully around his tense biceps. He breathes in slowly, holding onto his fragile mask of aloofness. Oh shit. Oh _shit_ , Doc Sheridan must have had a _damn_ good reason for telling her about his trans status -

“Are you still using your testosterone patches?”

Clint blinks hard at that.

“Yes. Of course I am,” he murmurs, his brows furrowed. “Why?”

Dr. Chiew doesn’t pull back any punches when it comes to the facts.

“The hCG test shows that you’re pregnant,” she says, her visage still cordial and professional. “We can do a blood test and an ultrasound to re-confirm the results, if you like. If you intend to maintain the pregnancy, you have to cease your HRT immediately.”

Clint stares at her with wide eyes of shock, his dry lips parted, his skin going ice cold even under his outfit. He suddenly feels light-headed, like he isn’t quite inside his body anymore and is floating above it like a ghost, his control of anything torn from him.

What the fuck? He’s … he’s pregnant? _Holy fuck_ , he’s _pregnant_? For real? But he’s a _man_ , he’s -

He shuts his eyes, and sees Phil in that marvelous, black leather jacket, holding his hand, smiling back at him. He feels Phil’s arms around him, feels Phil’s stubbly face against his and Phil’s lips upon his cheek, his forehead. He feels Phil’s bare skin against his, so hot and _alive_ as Phil slides into him so perfectly like Phil’s made just for _him_.

They’d tried their best to use a condom every time they had sex, they really did. But sometimes … sometimes, the goddamn _passion_ was just too _powerful_ , too _swift_. It conquered them like a sun-shrouding volley of arrows that pierced them through and through and non-stop. Every hit drained them of more of their restraint, until there was nothing but hunger, but _need_ to be as physically close to each other as possible, to _absorb_ each other.

And all it takes for him to get knocked up … is _once_.

Fuck.

Goddamn fucks of all _fucks_.

He opens his eyes to see Dr. Chiew glancing down at her comm pad and reading something on it.

“Dr. Sheridan is examining all your testosterone patches on hand right now and contacting our supplier about them. She thinks that quite a lot of them must have been defective for you to get pregnant and have the hCG levels you currently have. Have you noticed any bleeding in the past few months?”

Clint crosses his arms tighter over his chest. Swallows hard. He shuts his eyes again, and sees Phil under him on the bed, so firm and strong and _stable_ between his legs.

 _I haven_ _’t had my period in_ years _thanks to my HRT. I_ _…_ probably _can_ _’t get pregnant, but …_

 _But there'_ _s still a small chance?_

Small chance, indeed.

“Oh god,” he murmurs, eyes still closed. “I _was_ having my period and I thought it was something else.”

“What did you think it was?”

Clint grimaces and bows his head, scratching the back of his neck with the fingers of his left hand.

“I, uh, I got hit so often in the kidneys on a couple of missions. And then there was the fight with Bennett, and then with _Loki_ during the Battle of New York. I thought I was … just bleeding because of all that.”

He opens his eyes and lifts his head to see Dr. Chiew typing something on her comm pad with a stylus, no doubt in discussion with Dr. Sheridan.

“Dr. Sheridan says that you never reported such injuries to her.”

Clint grimaces again, knowing that the next time he sees his regular doc, she’s going to have a few choice words for him.

“I … didn’t feel the need to? I mean, I’ve healed from that by myself so many times! And you know, you guys are always so _busy_ and shit.”

Dr. Chiew doesn’t believe his crap for an instant. He likes her a lot.

“Can you give me an estimated time frame of the first bleeding you noticed?” she asks, one eyebrow raised.

“Uhm.” He scratches at his neck above the collar of his black-and-purple outfit. “I think … at least five months ago, if I’m right and the bloodstains _weren_ _’t_ just from my kidneys getting punched.”

Dr. Chiew taps on her comm pad with her stylus for another minute or so. Then she grips it with both hands to her lower body again, and looks him in the eye and says, “ Clint, I have to ask again: Do you intend to maintain the pregnancy?”

He has to break eye contact after several seconds. He doesn’t know what to say. His mind is a total blank. He glances down at the pristine linoleum floor next to Dr. Chiew’s feet, his hands now on his lap. He’s trying not to wring them, to keep them still, but they’re already trembling on their own. He feels like leaping off the stretcher and running and running and _running_ until he can’t run anymore. He feels like curling up into a ball right where he is, curling and curling until there’s nothing left except darkness and silence in which he can just lose himself.

But he can’t. He can’t. There’s … there’s someone else to think about now. There’s someone _growing_ inside him. Just a fetus right now but … it’ll grow into a _baby_. His and _Phil_ _’s_ baby -

“We also have options if you decide not to. We can arrange for a surgical abortion -”

“ _No_.”

The air in the room abruptly vanishes, as if siphoned out in a rush. His hands have become rigid fists on his lap. He’s sitting ramrod straight and looking at Dr. Chiew again, and whatever it is that she sees on his face and hears in his low, edged voice, it’s enough to make her tense up and rear back, just a bit, as if he’s about to … attack her. Her expression doesn’t shift, however, and a mere moment after her flinch, she’s reaching out one hand and pressing it against his left upper arm in a gesture of comfort. Her brown eyes are kind. Her hand is warm and chases away the chill across his skin.

“Okay,” she says composedly. “Okay, Clint, no abortion.”

As he gazes back at her, he forces himself to suck in a long, deep breath, to loosen his stiff shoulders and hands and flatten them on his thighs. He blinks a few times, feeling the fog of _ire_ dissipate from his head. Holy shit, he … really _was_ that close to striking out at her. What the _hell_ -

“I think it’s clear that you definitely want to maintain the pregnancy,” she says with a twinkle in her eyes now, and if he hadn’t respected her already, he does now. “Still, can you please give me a verbal confirmation of that?”

He makes sure to look her in the eye when he says, unwaveringly, “Yes. I want this baby.”

She lets her hand drop away from his arm. She steps back, giving him an assessing look.

“Okay. But you have to consider the ramifications, short-term and long-term. You have to _immediately_ stop your HRT and be off it until the baby is born because the testosterone can be toxic for the baby. Dr. Sheridan will discuss the effects in detail with you later.”

He nods, again at a loss for words. Yeah … yeah, of course he can’t be on his hormone treatment when he’s _pregnant_. He doesn’t want to hurt the baby in any way. But … what if he already has? By still using his testosterone patches until now?

“We’ll find out later if your continued use of the patches has had any effects on the baby,” Dr. Chiew says as if she read his mind. “We’ll run the necessary tests and monitor the baby’s development as it progresses.”

Clint nods again. His hands aren’t trembling as much anymore.

“As per the rules, I must inform Director Fury about this. You’ll also be suspended from missions until the baby is born. Or if you experience a miscarriage.”

He draws in another long, deep breath. Miscarriage. Yeah, there’s the possibility of that too, of him losing the baby anyway. Who knew that a _word_ can scare him so much?

“I will also have to inform your handler,” Dr. Chiew says, and now she’s gazing at him with pointed eyes, a wordless opening for him to raise an objection. Of course she would also know about his relationship with Phil. The whole damn _ship_ knows about it by now. And of course she’s figured out that Phil’s the father. The whole damn ship _knows_ how loyal he and Phil are to each other.

“I’ll tell him myself, Tam,” he says, swallowing visibly, uncaring of her seeing it.

With those kind eyes, she nods and replies, “All right.”

He wishes it will be as simple with Phil, that Phil will just say, “All right,” too, and hug and kiss him and tell him everything’s going to be fine.

But he’s Clint fucking Barton, isn’t he?

It can’t, _won'_ _t_ be that easy for him, not for something like this, something as _life-changing_ as this.

Phil never asked for _this_.

After a blood test that does indeed confirm his pregnancy and hours of substantial discussion with both Drs. Chiew and Sheridan (who is most certainly _not_ pleased with him for not reporting the multiple incidents of punched kidneys and bleeding) about the hiatus of his HRT and his pregnancy (his baby, his _baby_ ), he returns on a quinjet to the Tower in a daze. He doesn’t run into anyone else as he trudges across the roof and into the elevator and down to his apartment.

The whole damn place feels so _enormous_ , as if he’s shrinking, shrinking until there’s nothing left of him. It’s so quiet and _empty_.

 _This_ , he thinks to himself, weary to the bones, _is how things will be when the inevitable happens_.

He doesn’t really remember changing out of his Hawkeye outfit and into a black t-shirt and sweatpants. He doesn’t remember when he last ate or drank something, but he doesn’t feel hungry or thirsty. He spends eons pacing the floor of the living room and staring out the ceiling-to-floor windows, his SHIELD comm pad in hand, watching the sun go down and the skies darken into a starless night.

The lights in the living room and open-plan kitchen switch on automatically. It’s then that he shuffles over to the nearest couch, a red and heavily cushioned one with a glass coffee table set in front of it. He taps the number of Phil’s secure, private line on the comm pad as he sits down on the couch. He listens to the single monotonous beep.

“Hey,” he says into the hush that follows that beep. “Phil, I … I know you're still in Nairobi and you can’t pick up or call back yet but I just had to …” His throat clicks once as he swallows hard. “Just ... just, call me when you're coming back, okay?"

 _I love you_ , he wants to say also. _I love you so much it fucking hurts_.

He ends his voice message and call before he does.

And on the couch, with his legs drawn tight to his chest, his arms on his knees and his head cradled between them, he sits there alone for a very, very long time.

 

<<< >>>

 

Clint doesn’t realize just how long he’s been curled up on the couch until JARVIS, the Tower’s artificial intelligence system (and Tony’s most beloved tech baby), accidentally startles him, making him jerk and topple back on red cushions.

“Agent Barton? Sir is inquiring if you would like to join him and Captain Rogers for dinner.”

He wills his hammering heart to beat slower and not feel so much like it’s about to jump out of his throat as he says, “Uh … I, uh. Sorry. I gotta pass. I’m … not feeling too good.”

JARVIS is quiet for a minute, then says, “Sir asks if you are in need of any medical attention.”

Clint almost laughs at that, except he doesn’t know whether the sound that’ll erupt out of him will be a laugh or a sob.

 _Yeah_ , he wants to say, _I_ _’m gonna need it for the next seven months. At least. And I don’t even know where I’ll be in_ days _when Phil comes back and finds out that I_ _’m. Freaking._ Pregnant.

What he says instead is a stupendous lie.

“Nah. I’m fine on my own. Tell them to go ahead and enjoy themselves.”

“Very well.” JARVIS pauses, then adds, “Sir and Captain Rogers wish you a speedy recovery with whatever it is that’s ailing you, as do I.”

Clint manages a snort at that, although it sounds a little wet.

“Thanks.”

“If you require anything, Agent Barton, I am always here at your service.”

Clint knows it’s kind of silly to glance up at the ceiling when JARVIS technically isn’t in it, but he does it anyway, his lips bowing up in a small, sincere smile.

“Thanks, JARVIS,” he murmurs as sincerely.

“You are welcome.”

A while after that, Clint shuffles over to the kitchen and forces himself to consume some food. He gulps down two large cups of water and heats up one of Phil’s Swiss cheese and bacon quiches in the oven because it’s Phil’s favorite and he goddamn misses Phil. (And there’s someone else he has to think about now, someone who utterly depends on him and everything he does to his body in the months to come and he can’t fuck up there, he _won'_ _t_.) He doesn’t taste any of the quiche as he eats half of it.

After storing the remaining half of the quiche back in the fridge, he’s washing the plates and fork in the sink when the memory of the last time he and Phil had made love here skates to the forefront of his mind. He’d playfully pushed Phil against the counter just a foot away from where he’s standing now, sliding his hands under the waistband of Phil’s black sweatpants and squeezing Phil’s bare ass underneath while Phil kissed him and tried to yank his white tank top off. They’d kissed and laughed together and then kissed again and then Phil was lifting him onto the counter and yanking off his underwear and oh damn, that had been one of the times they’d forgotten to use a condom. He’d goaded Phil into fucking him right here, _right now_ , now now _now_ and Phil did, thrusting in to the hilt in one stroke and making them both cry out into each other’s mouths.

 _Oh yeah, fill me up, just like this_.

 _Put your baby in me_.

Now, alone, Clint squeezes his eyes shut and bows his head, pressing one palm to his forehead as the water continues to pour into the sink from its open tap. No, wait … no, he’d said all that on the night of the Big Date, not later. And that wasn’t even the first time he’d blurted out to Phil about wanting a baby. He’d … he’d kept telling himself he _didn_ _’t_ want a baby, a _family_ with Phil, but it isn’t true.

He wants it. He wants it _all_ with Phil, so badly.

But he’s _Clint fucking Barton_ , isn’t he?

He’s the guy everyone leaves behind, eventually. He’s the guy who ends up with nothing, eventually, no matter how much he manages to get, to _earn_ for himself.

He’s shivering as he shambles over to the bedroom, his arms wrapped around his torso. He doesn’t feel any less colder as he swathes himself in layers of blankets and burrows into the pillows, his head on the one that still has Phil’s faint scent on it. He stares with half-shut eyes at the empty space where Phil will usually be. Where Phil may soon never be again.

The thought of that almost makes him physically sick, worse than his damn _morning sickness_. Phil really never asked for this. In fact, since their sexual relationship is barely two months old, they’ve yet to even talk about it beyond, “We’re fucking perfect together and perfect at fucking together and let’s keep it that way.”

A _baby_ doesn’t show up anywhere in that plan.

So what if _that_ _’s_ the deal breaker for Phil? What if that’s the deal breaker for _him_ , if Phil still wants their relationship but … doesn’t want the baby? What if he doesn’t want an abortion but _Phil_ does?

Clint burrows even more into the blankets and pillows, shivering harder. He curls up into a fetal position, his forearms a defensive shield over his belly, his thighs pressing against his forearms. With no one around to hear him, he allows himself to make a tiny whimper of dejection against the pillow.

It’s … possible. It really is possible that Phil may prefer an abortion instead. Maybe Phil will say that a baby’s too much hassle for SHIELD agents like them (and he’s known quite a few agents who really did quit SHIELD after starting a family, or can have one only because their spouse isn’t a SHIELD employee). Maybe Phil will say that men like them aren’t meant to be fathers and that they can’t be _good_ fathers (and hell, in _his_ case that’s true, isn’t it, given how screwed up his childhood was, how screwed up _he_ is). And by tomorrow, he’ll be officially off any missions until the baby is born (or he miscarries, fuck, that may still happen no matter how well he takes care of himself), and what good is a specialist agent who can’t _do his job_? What good is a specialist agent who’s going to have to care for a _baby_ and places said baby above SHIELD without a second thought?

Well, shit. He doesn’t only have to choose between Phil and the baby, he has to choose between Phil _and_ SHIELD and the baby.

Well, _shit_. He already knows what his decision on _that_ is.

He pulls the blankets tighter around his body, still shivering. If his eyes aren’t blurry and stinging like they are, he would have seen the black, otherworldly, tree-like branches light years long and wide creeping around and over him, lancing themselves into his anguished heart and feasting upon its sorrow. If his ears aren’t those of a mortal human like his are, he would have heard, from far, far away in a place beyond mere description, a grim chortle of indulgence that has invoked fear and woe in entire _worlds_ that he will never know about.

He lies there in the dimness, alone and cold, for a very, very long time.

Then, he’s thinking of his mother. He’s thinking of the rare days when she smiled, when she saw him wearing shorts and pulling at his long hair in disgust, when he declared over and over that he’s a _boy_ and not a girl and she smiled at him anyway. He’s thinking of her when Pa whaled on her for not cooking the meatloaf just the way he liked it, when Pa whaled on her for becoming old and no longer beautiful, when Pa whaled on her just to feel like a big man by hurting someone who never fought back (and he never was, he never was).

Was _this_ what Ma had felt like, when he was born and she realized that Pa didn’t want him? Did Ma fight for him when Pa wanted him gone? Did Ma take all that screaming, all those hits on her body, all that _pain_ for _him_?

He sees Ma again in his mind, smiling at him. He sees the storm clouds and rain in her blue eyes ebb away when she looks at him. He sees _hope_ in them, hope for a better life for him than she’s had and now, _now_ he has an inkling of what that kind of love must feel like.

“I’ll fight for you too,” he whispers down at his belly, touching his lower abdomen under the blankets, “no matter who you become.”

And gradually, eventually, the black branches of ice retreat from him, as if warded off by a growing, pure warmth emanating from within him.

 

<<< >>>

 

In retrospect, months from now, Clint will be remembering the following three days as Those Three Days in which He Was a Stupid Dumbass Who Should Have Trusted the Love of His Whole Life More Because _He_ _’s_ the Love of _Phil_ _’s_ Whole Life. It’s a damn mouthful to be sure, but it’s also the best summation he can come up with to describe to Phil what had been going through his misery-laden mind then.

“Really, sweetheart?” Phil says, eyes narrowed and both eyebrows raised. “You actually thought I would just _force you to have an abortion_ and _make you leave_ if you didn’t do it? _Really_?”

“I … _well_ …” Clint glances at Phil who’s sitting on the floor of the purple-walled bedroom that’ll become their baby’s room, surrounded by the polished, solid oak parts of what will become a baby cot, and grimaces. “I was cold and in shock and I missed you like crazy?”

Phil’s lips quirk for an instant. Then Phil goes deadpan, and says, “You know that’s no excuse for assuming I’m a selfish asshole who’d just abandon his husband and child, right?”

Clint rubs his swollen belly over his black, knitted sweater with both hands, the platinum ring on the fourth finger of his left hand glinting under the warm ceiling light. He rolls his eyes, but he’s trying not to smile and totally failing as he says, “We weren’t _married_ yet.”

“And?” Phil says, raising just one eyebrow this time. It’s sexy as hell and doing funny things to Clint’s insides (as if they aren’t already _interesting_ enough).

“I’ll make it up to you by blowing you later, okay?”

“As fun as that certainly is,” Phil says, resuming the construction of the baby cot, “I’d rather rub cocoa butter on you again.”

Clint sits back on the rocking chair he’s in and shuts his eyes and shakes his head, still smiling.

“You are _so_ obsessed with that shit. I think you’re just hiding some kinda _kink_ ya got about my _belly_.”

Phil doesn’t even look up from his work with what appears to be the guardrail and a whole bunch of bolts.

“Yep. You got me,” Phil says, totally deadpan, and Clint laughs, his eyes crinkling and his face glowing like the noonday sun.

“You nut.”

“You love me. And I know it.”

Clint’s smile softens as he gazes at his husband smiling back at him.

“Yeah,” he murmurs without any doubt, feeling their baby wiggle inside him. “I do.”

 

<<< >>>

 

Of course, everything in retrospect seems so plain and simple. Everything is already assured and set in stone, nothing more than a recording of events that have already occurred, to be pulled up and reminisced or studied so that past mistakes won’t be made again.

On the fourth day after Clint discovers his pregnancy, when Phil returns from Nairobi on an extremely sunny, pellucid morning, Clint still has no idea of what his (and his baby’s) fate will be. Clint is still in limbo, an exhausted, anxious mess whose morning sickness had worsened in the past two days, whose hands tremble every time he thinks about what he’s going to say to Phil and comes up with absolutely nothing.

As he’d requested in his voice message, Phil calls him first before journeying back to the Tower from the Helicarrier. Clint doesn’t pick up the call.

“Clint? I just heard your message. I’m about to leave the Helicarrier now.”

He listens to Phil as Phil records the voice message for him, sitting on the bed in a white tank top and jeans, staring down at his StarkPad. There’s a recent photo of Phil on the screen, a candid portrait of him in that divine pin-striped, midnight blue suit and purple, paisley tie and those thick-framed, black glasses. Phil looks so damn handsome, like a fiery star that doesn’t realize how _brilliant_ it is. That’s how he wants to remember Phil, smiling that doting not-smile at him, and not a resentful expression or worse, a completely _blank_ face that Phil will surely have when he tells Phil about the baby that was never planned.

“I also just heard from Nick that you’re no longer on the active duty roster. He didn’t say why. He told me to talk with you directly about it.” In the background of the call, Clint hears a sound akin to that of a sliding door opening. Then he hears the sound again, and then the background noise diminishes to near silence. Phil must have gone into the lavatory of the quinjet for more privacy. “Clint, you sounded … distressed. I’m coming home soon, okay? Whatever is going on, we can talk about it, sweetheart.”

Phil’s voice has gone low and savory, like it always does whenever Phil knows he needs comfort. If Clint had had more rest, if Clint hasn’t already convinced himself so much that Phil’s going to leave him, he would have heard the very slight tremor in Phil’s voice, the thread of apprehension upon wondering if _Clint_ is going to leave _him_.

As it is, Clint is too busy digging his fingers into his thighs, too busy trying not to crumple as Phil ends the message with, “I’m coming home. I missed you. _I love you_.”

Clint draws up his legs to his chest, pressing his hands over his face, over damp eyes and resting his upper arms on his knees.

For the first time, and maybe the last, he has a recording of Phil saying those words to him. It’s priceless beyond measure, and he tells himself that’s a perfectly justifiable excuse on top of his hormones going haywire from the abrupt halt of his HRT for feeling so fucking _emotional_ about it. Oh, and there’s the _baby_ growing inside him, which is _another_ perfectly justifiable excuse for him saving the voice message so he has a copy of it that he can listen to any time he wants. (And he’ll need it, he knows he’ll need it on the lonely days after knowing the taste of heaven and then losing it.)

He climbs out of the bed on wobbly hands and legs. He feels like every next step he takes may be the one that makes the floor splinter beneath his feet, that sends him falling into a void from which he’ll never escape. He feels sick and horrible and sad and _angry_ at himself for being so out of control. He should be thinking of what he can pack up and carry on his back, of where to go, where he can _hide_ until the baby’s born, but he’s drawing a fucking _blank_. SHIELD has been the place where he’s _belonged_ for once in his life, where he’s _useful_ , where he has _friends_ he can count on to watch his back during battle against the enemy (but none of them except Tasha know he’s trans). And yeah, there’s the Avengers and the Tower too, but the same problems arise: How can he be an Avenger when he has to take care of a baby, a baby who _needs_ him all the time? And how can he _remain_ here when Phil is the Avengers’ official liaison with SHIELD, if Phil doesn’t want the baby and ends everything with him?

He doesn’t know where else to go anymore. He _has_ nowhere else to go anymore, not since leaving the circus and then joining SHIELD and cutting off all ties to his past underworld connections. (Then again there’s no way in _hell_ he’s ever going to go to _them_ for help with a _baby_.)

He’ll be on his own. Again.

But then, that’s nothing new. That’s predictable. That’s something he _knows_.

And Phil … Phil is just … just a _glitch_ that somehow found a way into the fucked up program that’s his life. A tremendous, wonderful, _incredible_ glitch that’s improved so much about him, but a glitch, nonetheless. A temporary one. One he’s never deserved to have for long, it seems. He shouldn’t have expected otherwise.

He’s staring out the living room’s ceiling-to-floor windows once more, his arms crossed tight over his chest when he hears the apartment’s front door unlock and open. He has to suck in two shaky breaths before he feels stable enough to turn around and see Phil saunter in and shut the door behind him.

Phil is in a black suit with a red-and-blue, striped tie. Phil’s already removed his jacket, slinging it over his right forearm, and the sleeves of his white dress shirt are already rolled up to the elbows. Phil’s hair is as styled and impeccable as ever, but one look at Phil’s unshaven and peaked (though still so _handsome_ ) face tells Clint that Phil hasn’t had much sleep in the past few days either.

When their eyes meet, when Phil sees him, the corners of Phil’s beautiful eyes crinkle. Phil’s lips curve up into an unmistakable smile.

“Hey,” Phil says in that sublime voice, and unable to resist, Clint’s feet move on their own accord towards Phil, taking him closer and closer to the other man even as he feels like keeling over and curling up on the floor.

Then, with just a half dozen feet between them, for the first time since they’ve become lovers, Clint hesitates instead of barreling straight into Phil’s arms.

Phil’s expression doesn’t change. His eyes are locked to Phil’s as Phil raises his arms with palms up and quietly, _tenderly_ says, “What are you doing all the way there? Come here.”

He almost knocks Phil over as he rushes across the remaining distance to lock his arms around Phil’s shoulders and bury his face into the side of Phil’s warm neck. Phil embraces him as tightly with those sturdy arms around his torso, rubbing his back with those large, strong hands. Phil smells so good, so earthy and _comforting_. Phil’s scent has begun to fade from their pillows and now that Phil’s back, their bed will smell and _feel_ right again and … and -

Phil doesn’t know. Phil still doesn’t _know_.

Clint clutches onto Phil’s shoulders, breathes in Phil’s scent and feels Phil’s pulse against his face for another moment longer, committing it all to memory. Memory may be all he’ll have left soon.

“Clint?” Phil murmurs as he so reluctantly lets go of Phil and steps backwards and away. He quickly turns around, his throat working to swallow past a painful rock in it when he feels Phil’s hand sliding down the length of his arm and then grasping his hand for a precious moment even as he’s walking away towards the kitchen.

 _Please, don'_ _t make this harder than it has to be. Please_.

He doesn’t, _can_ _’t_ say the words aloud. His throat keeps working and swallowing as he gets his and Phil’s mugs from the mug stand on the counter near the sink, as he hears Phil say his name again from somewhere behind him. Coffee, yeah, _coffee_ , Phil will want some after all that _flying_ and debriefing and lack of sleep and -

“Clint. What’s happened?”

Phil is embracing him once more, from behind, resting a firm chin upon his shoulder, slipping those sturdy arms that he’s missed _so much_ under his to enfold him. He thinks he can hold himself together a while longer yet, he _thinks_ he can but then Phil presses a soft kiss to his shoulder and just like that, the rock in his throat grows and grows until he’s choking and his vision starts to _burn_.

He hates himself as he staggers away from Phil and roughly wipes at his face. He hates that he can’t even _man up_ for something this important, that he just has to be this pacing wreck of an _idiot_ who can’t stop wringing his hands and can’t breathe right and keeps feeling so damn _cold_.

He can feel Phil’s eyes on him as he paces for a few more minutes.

Then, he halts in his tracks. Turns around and totters back to Phil, forcing himself to lift his head and look at the other man. Phil’s a hot blur of colorful shapes that stands silently in front of him.

“I love you,” Clint says with a ragged voice, meaning it still and always.

He can better see Phil after he blinks a few times. Phil is gazing back at him with eyes that are still warm, still so _beautiful_. But there is also a tension to Phil’s shoulders and neck, as Phil is preparing himself for … for a _vicious blow_ or something. He doesn’t comprehend why. Neither does he comprehend Phil’s question.

“Are you ending our relationship?” Coulson says very calmly, with a face that Clint can’t quite fathom either, a face that’s seemingly blank and yet roiling with something like … fear.

Phil is … Phil’s _scared_ too?

And why does Phil think _he_ _’s_ the one who wants to end things between them?

No, he doesn’t. _Of course he doesn_ _’t_. It’s not him who’s going to end things, not when he finally tells Phil what he has to.

Clint violently shakes his head in answer to Phil’s question, and if he hadn’t squeezed his eyes shut when he does so, he would have seen the tension draining from Phil’s shoulders. Seen Phil’s eyes shut for a second from the _relief_.

“You might,” Clint says towards the floor, voice still ragged. “After what I tell you.”

When he glances at Phil, he sees that Phil’s shoulders are lower, more relaxed. He sees the _warmth_ in Phil’s eyes, and despite how cold and frail he feels, he also feels a tiny, feeble spark ignite inside his chest.

“I’m really sure I won’t,” Phil murmurs, eyes softening even more. “But I want to know what’s gotten you so worried and why you’re no longer on active duty, honey.”

Clint curses his goddamn _hormones_ there and then, because they’re the only reason he can think of to explain why a single term of endearment like that can make him feel like _bawling his eyes out_.

He presses his hands to his face. Sucks in a grating breath.

It’s now or never, Barton. _Just fucking say it already_.

“I’m pregnant, okay!” he exclaims after lowering his hands, looking Phil in the eye because Phil deserves at least that. “ _I_ _’m pregnant_.”

He sees Phil’s eyes go wide, and that’s all he lets himself see before he’s striding out of the kitchen and onto the vacant, carpeted area between the kitchen and the main lounge area, pacing again. He crosses his arms over his chest and shoves his hands between his biceps and ribs. He’s beginning to shiver again, and now the words that he couldn’t think of before are gushing out of his mouth in an unforgiving torrent.

“I - I only found out four days ago after throwing up from _morning sickness_ and not knowing that’s what it was until I went to the docs on the Helicarrier. They said my testosterone patches were _defective_ and that maybe they’ve been defective for _months_ and I didn’t know, I didn’t notice anything _changing_ except that I’d _bleed_ now and then and I thought it was because I kept getting hit in my _kidneys_ and - and I told ya before, I’d gone through that before and I’d _healed_ from that on my own so I didn’t bother telling the docs about it, I didn’t think I was having my fucking _period_ again but _I was_.”

He shakes his head hard as he paces, hunching his shoulders.

“I’m sorry, _I_ _’m sorry_. You never asked for this,” he rasps at the floor, not looking at Phil, feeling that restless and _dark_ thing in him surface after so long and just take root, just _take over_. “First you gotta end up with a guy who doesn’t even have the right … the right …” - he gestures in frustration at his unpacked groin - “fucking _things_ down there! You gotta end up with a _fucked up_ guy like me who gets fucking _knocked up_ -”

“Clint.”

“And it’s just _like_ me to fuck up the one truly good thing that’s ever happened to me but what’s _new_ , right. I shoulda known it wouldn’t last, _couldn_ _’t_ last. I’m so fucking stupid for hoping for _more_. You’d think I woulda _smartened up_ after Pop, after the Swordsman, after _Barney_. I shoulda made more _back-up plans_ in case I -in case … I gotta quit SHIELD. I gotta quit the Avengers too ‘cause how can I be there for my baby if I’m hurt or _dead_?”

“ _Clint_.”

“I’ll figure something out, okay? I’ll take care of the baby myself, I won’t drag you into things, you don’t hafta worry about that. I’ll figure something out, I always do and -”

And then Phil’s arms are around him again and he can’t move and he can’t _breathe_ because Phil’s now cupping his face with both hands and wiping his cheeks with gentle thumbs, pressing their foreheads together. He scrunches his eyes shut, and something wet and scorching spills from them and again, Phil wipes it away with those gentle thumbs and fuck, no, he doesn’t deserve this, this _kindness_ , he _doesn_ _’t_ -

Phil won’t let him go when he tries to twist his aching head, his sore body away. Phil merely hugs him closer, tighter against a warm, _solid_ torso and a broad, dependable shoulder, grasping his head to said shoulder with one hand cradling the back of his head, with one forearm cradling his neck. Phil’s other arm cradles his upper back and Phil’s other hand clasps his upper arm. Phil is pressing that handsome, bristly face to the back of his neck, pressing those fine, dark pink lips there.

“Do I get a say in this, sweetheart?” Phil murmurs into his skin, and Clint closes blistering eyes and is unable to stop himself from rubbing at Phil’s shoulder and upper arm. He doesn’t bother to wipe his face this time.

“Of course you do,” he whispers. “Of course.”

“I’m still here, Clint. I’m here.”

Phil presses another kiss to the back of his neck, and he can’t help but marvel yet again at how mere words from Phil’s lips can make everything else apart from the two of them in existence fade away, make every restless, dark fear in him cower and flee from their light.

“Hey.”

He feels so _frail_ as Phil maneuvers him with those large, strong hands around his upper arms so that they’re facing each other again, inches between their faces. He feels like those hands are all that’s holding him up and stopping him from disintegrating into something beyond salvation.

“Clint, look at me.”

He peels his eyes open to see Phil gazing at him with those beautiful, _beautiful_ blue eyes, eyes that have never once gazed at him in enmity. Only kindness. Respect. And affection that has always, _always_ run as deep and everlasting as his for Phil.

“Clint. Listen to me carefully, okay?”

Clint blinks, which Phil knows to be _yes_.

Phil cups his face with both hands again, then says so plainly, undoubtedly, _lovingly_ , “I want this baby. _I want our baby_. I want you. I _love_ you. I always will, and I will tell you and _show_ you as many times as I have to until you _believe_ me, and even after that.”

It takes Clint what feels like a century to say something in return, for his lips to stop quavering. For his brain to stop reeling from the fact that the world _hasn_ _’t_ ended, that Phil is still here, _still here_.

“You … you _want_ this baby. You want …”

“Yes, us. I want _us_ ,” Phil says, as if Phil’s read his mind, his _heart_. “And, Clint? It takes _two_ to make a pregnancy happen. _I_ am as responsible as you are for this. When we forgot to use condoms, when we _chose_ not to use them, _I_ was part of that decision too.”

“But -”

“Also, we’re going to have a _talk_ later about you getting hit in the kidneys so much, because I’m sure you didn’t _inform_ me of such injuries when you _should have_ -”

“I -”

“ _And_ we’re going to have a talk about you assuming the _worst_ about me every time we have to deal with a hurdle in our personal relationship. Clearly, I am _not_ doing a good job as your husband -”

“That is _not true_. You are _amazing_ , you’re just so unreal and fantastic and … wait, _what_?”

Oh, now Phil’s the one who won’t quite look him in the eye, biting that enticing lower lip before saying, “I … said ‘husband’, didn’t I?”

That fragile yet persevering, _emboldened_ thing in the left side of Clint’s chest skips a long, astounded beat.

“Yeah,” he whispers, staring at Phil’s face, his lips starting to quaver for an extremely different reason. “You did.”

Phil clears his throat once, his cheeks turning endearingly red.

“I … I had this _plan_ , you know. I was going to surprise you during a dinner. Not a _fancy_ dinner, no, but something you and I will enjoy, something private and _intimate_. I thought maybe we would order takeaway from that steakhouse and just stay here, just the two of us, and then I would … pop the question.”

“Pop the question,” Clint reiterates in a stunned whisper.

“Yes.” Phil clears his throat again, then says, looking him straight in the eye and caressing his cheek, “The _rings_ aren’t ready yet, which is why I haven’t asked you to marry me already.”

Now, Phil’s hands really _are_ all that’s holding him upright.

“You wanna _marry me_?” he barely whispers, his eyes wide and clear, so _clear_ for the first time today.

 _Oh_ , Phil’s got that deadpan expression on again, the one that makes him smile and laugh and _fly_.

“Yes. Mostly for tax purposes. Although there’s also that little thing about you being the Love of My Whole Life, and other little things like you bearing our _baby_ and giving me a _family_ and making me feel _complete_ like no one else can. But yes, _mostly_ for tax purposes.”

And oh, _oh_ , there’s that rare, ear-to-ear smile that puts that dimple in Phil’s cheek, that beacon that no sun in any universe can hope to ever compete with, that makes his own lips bow up in a smile too. The tremulous laugh that huffs past his smile surprises him as much as it softens Phil’s smile.

“But I - I also know that although we’ve known each other for two years, we’ve been lovers for only _two months_ ,” Phil murmurs, his expression more solemn but no less fond. “I know a marriage proposal at this point may be _too fast_ for you and, maybe you want to slow things down first. Maybe you _don_ _’t_ want to -”

“I do. _I do_ , Phil,” Clint says, so _very_ plainly and undoubtedly, and then they’re gazing at each other with glistening eyes, knowing that Clint isn’t just stating an opinion, but a _vow_.

As Phil tenderly skims the calloused pads of long fingers across the damp skin beneath his raw eyes, Clint feels another torrent of words welling up inside him.

“I thought … I thought you liked things as they were, ya know? I thought you were hoping things would just _stay_ the same, that you didn’t want anything to _change_ and if they _did_ , that you wouldn’t be _happy_ about that and …”

“Give you a bleak ultimatum?” Phil says, concluding the sentence far more diplomatically than Clint would have.

Clint nods and lowers his eyes. The remorse that he feels now, at - how did Phil put it? - assuming the _worst_ about Phil when things get bad, is devastating. Why doesn’t Phil get _mad_ at him for doing that? Why doesn’t Phil _tell him off_ or - or _give up on him_?

 _Because he isn_ _’t Pop, or the Swordsman or Barney_ , the little boy in Clint who never stopped holding on for something better says, the little boy who’s become a man and needs not be ashamed for still needing reassurance and love. _Because not everyone ends up like Ma and Pop. Because when people leave, it doesn_ _’t mean that_ you’re _the bad one_.

“It’s just that -” He slowly pulls away from Phil, and Phil lets him. Lets him pace again. Lets him wave his arms about as the torrent of words resurges, as the dark, restless things within him try to take root again and _fail_ , and stands there and _listens_. “It’s just that I’m _me_ , ya know? This is _me_ we’re talking about here, _Clint fucking Barton_ , who was born in the wrong body, in a screwed up family with an abusive, alcoholic _bastard_ for a dad and a mom who wanted so _bad_ for me to be a _girl_ when I _wasn_ _’t_ that she let Pa hit her and _hit her_ and a brother who never _saw_ me and left when he finally _did_ and that’s just _it_ , don’t you see?”

He faces Phil and flings his arms out, and once more, Phil is a hot blur of colorful shapes that stands silently, attentively in front of him.

“ _Everybody_ leaves me! Everybody! They all do, sooner or later, and - and no matter how much I _get_ for myself, I end up with _nothing_ because that’s the story of my life! That’s how it _is_ , how it’s _always_ been, and you’re supposed to be - to be _insane_ if the same things happen over and over and yet you expect something _different_ , right? So I’m supposed to have _nobody_ and _nothing_ , Phil! I’m supposed to have nothing and now I have -”

And now, the little boy in Clint who has been waiting for this moment for a very, very, very long time says nothing at all, for it is Clint who needs to understand it, to _believe_ it as he says with a fractured voice, “Now I have _everything_.”

Clint squeezes his eyes shut and presses his hands to the sides of his head. He hears someone crying with harsh sobs, and he thinks that it sounds a lot like him although he’s never cried like this before, not even in front of Ma after Pop punched him repeatedly for daring to talk back. He feels a warm, solid body against him and sturdy arms around him again. He lets his head fall forward onto a broad, dependable shoulder. Tucks his face into the firm warmth there, and feels the white broadcloth against his face turn wet with time.

There’s a large, strong hand cradling the back of his head, petting his hair. There’s another large, strong hand on the middle of his juddering back, its long fingers spread open, holding him up and not letting him fall again.

“You’re allowed to want things for yourself, Clint. You’re allowed to _have_ them and _keep_ them,” a sublime and equally fractured, low voice says into his ear. “You’re allowed to be _happy_.”

“I dunno about that,” Clint rasps hoarsely, muffled by the cloth against his face.

“Well, it’s a good a thing I’m here to prove you wrong, isn’t it?”

He feels dry, soft lips upon his temple. He feels those large, strong hands lift his head until he’s gazing into beautiful eyes that are more red than blue right now.

“And you are _not_ fucked up. _Never_ say that again,” Phil says with a more steady voice, giving his head a brief, admonishing shake with both hands. “I don’t like it when something awful and _untrue_ like that is said about the most handsome, wonderful, _phenomenal_ man in the world whom I love so damn much.”

And again, Clint’s lips tremor into a smile and he thinks that this time, _this time_ , it’s going to stay for a long, long while.

“I thought the award for most handsome, wonderful guy in the world was already claimed by you,” he murmurs with a more steady voice of his own, his own red eyes crinkling and gleaming.

“Oh well. I’m a generous man. I’m willing to share that award with my future husband. But just him.”

Clint huffs out another laugh, an emphatic one, and then they’re standing with their foreheads and noses touching, his hands cradling Phil’s neck while Phil’s arms clinch around his waist. He can feel Phil’s constant pulse under his palm. He can feel Phil’s warm breaths upon his lips. He can feel _Phil_ , when he’d thought he never would again.

“Tell me I can kiss you now,” Phil whispers, those dark pink lips inching closer to his, awaiting his consent.

Clint kisses him first, sliding up his hands to draw and angle Phil’s face to his, finding Phil’s mouth swiftly and closing his eyes as he does so. He feels that spark inside him flare up into an inferno, and he knows the same fire’s billowing up in Phil too from the way Phil is slotting their bodies together and kissing down his bared neck, sucking and licking at the pulse there.

Phil clutches him tighter when he says Phil’s name, clutches him _tight_ and kisses him on the mouth again as they stumble towards and onto the semi-circular, lavish, beige couch that’s in front of a massive, high-definition television they scarcely use (and why would they, when they can be doing what they are right now?). Phil makes sure to be the one toppling on his back onto the cushions with Clint on top of him, and the thoughtfulness of that is just doing funny _things_ to Clint’s insides.

God, he’s missed this man so much. He loves this man _so damn much_.

“I wanna ride you, Phil,” he says, leaning down to kiss Phil’s lips, to nip at and kiss a trail along Phil’s jawline, down Phil’s neck. “I want you inside me so deep that I’ll feel you _forever_.”

They don’t bother with a condom, and wouldn’t have anyway even if they still had the mind to think about it. They don’t want _anything_ between them this time. No clothes, no condom, just them, just _them_ fitting together so _good_ as Clint sinks down on Phil’s rock-hard cock. Clint drags in a stuttering, noisy breath full of yearning and Phil lets out a low groan when Clint takes it all in one go. Phil feels so fucking _big_ inside him, filling him up so _perfectly_ that he has to groan too, let his mouth fall open with wonder and his back and neck arch from the sheer _pleasure_ of it.

For a while, the sole sounds in their apartment are of their rough breaths and moans and their skin smacking together every time Clint slams down and takes Phil inside him to the hilt. Phil’s gripping his hips with both hands and he can feel Phil’s eyes on his face, on the bunched muscles of his taut arms, on the scorching, slick place where their flexing bodies _merge_ over and over.

“You feel _wonderful_ , honey,” Phil rasps, watching him with exalting eyes.

“Phil. Oh, babe,” he whispers, and he moves faster, grinding down and swiveling his hips and making them both moan loudly at the intense sensations that ripple through them.

Phil suddenly lunges up to kiss him and Clint gasps into his mouth, then throws his head back with a cry when Phil shifts them both so that Phil is sitting up against the couch’s backrest and hits his sweet spot dead on. In this position, Phil has easier access to his mouth and neck and chest, and Phil’s hands are free to stroke him between his spread thighs, to fondle his engorged clit and the sensitive lips of his labia stretched around Phil’s cock until he’s panting hard and trembling from head to toe. He keeps going, bucking and rolling his hips, while Phil mouths at his throat and collarbones and nipples. When his pace starts going jerky, he tries to say Phil’s name again, tries to tell Phil he’s close, so _close_.

“Oh fuck. Oh _fuck_ , oh, _ohh_ , I’m gonna _come_ ,” he gasps, shuddering in Phil’s arms as Phil thrusts up on his next slam down, going in so damn _deep_.

Phil reaches up to tug his head down for a long, open-mouthed kiss, but it’s when Phil presses a hand upon his belly, over where _their baby is growing_ , that’s when he comes harder than a freight train at full speed. He convulses against Phil’s tense body and around Phil’s thrusting cock, shouting unabashedly at the ceiling with his eyes scrunched shut. He grins down at Phil when Phil finds his own release with a guttural cry, arching up so hard that Phil’s hips clear the couch with several inches to spare and lifts them both up. He can _feel_ Phil coming inside him, shooting hard and _hot_.

In the aftermath, Phil sinks back against the couch and Clint sinks onto him, breathing into each other’s mouths, groaning in unison at Clint clenching around Phil’s still semi-hard cock. Phil wraps those sturdy, _sturdy_ arms snugly around him and nuzzles his face and oh yeah, he knows they ’re not going anywhere just yet and he is _so_ okay with that.

He hums as Phil’s hands slide slow and easy up his spine and the back of his neck. He bows his head to nuzzle Phil’s neck, and feels the rhythm of his life, his future against his cheek, and smiles. He knows that there will still be other hurdles to deal with in the coming days and months and _years_. He knows that there is still past damage that needs healing or burying, that Phil will eventually join him for his regular sessions with Dr. Langley who’s been his psychiatrist since he joined SHIELD, that there will be more days of outbursts and tears and frustration at himself and, yeah … he is so okay with that too.

He’s okay, because Phil isn’t like anyone else he’s ever known, because things don’t have to turn out bad for him although it did for Ma and Pop. Because when people leave and abandon him, it can be the best thing they’ve ever done for him, setting him free to find and be with people who _won_ _’t_.

Phil is here. Still here.

Phil smiles that sweet not-smile at him as they gaze at each other. It makes something _ache_ so nice in the left side of his chest, and he thinks, okay, he’s had enough of choking up and crying like a baby (he’s got a _baby_ growing inside him, _his and Phil'_ _s baby_ , holy crap) for today. Time for something way healthier for the soul.

“Phil?”

“Hmm?”

Phil’s eyes are almost closed from satiety.

“Steve thinks about us having sex,” Clint says nonchalantly, his face as innocent as he can arrange it.

He almost bursts into laughter at Phil’s eyes opening saucer-wide at his comment. He has to bite his lip when he feels the cock in him _harden_ again. Oh _ho_ , if Phil’s got a series of talks with him in the near future, then _he_ _’s_ got a talk with Phil lined up about why _Phil_ thinks that Captain America thinking about them having sex is hot too.

“Oh, and _uh_ , I also told him how _big_ your _cock_ is. And how you fuck like a _dream_ and make me come like Mount Kilauea and he got so red, he almost went kaboom.”

When Phil’s eyes go impossibly wider and Phil _squeaks_ like a mouse, he does explode into a strident belly laugh. He’s still laughing when Phil smacks him hard on one butt cheek, when Phil cracks up as well and hugs him so tightly and affectionately. He thinks that he can laugh and laugh and never get tired of laughing with Phil like this. He thinks, yeah, he’ll never fear losing this again, for he will have this for _the rest of their lives together_ and it’s true. It’s true.

 

<<< >>>

 

Nick Fury is grinning at Coulson from behind that ostentatious, SHIELD-emblemed desk in the vastest office on board the Helicarrier when he personally hands in the filled-out Declaration of Marriage Between Coworkers form. Last he checked with Human Resources, it’s one of the rarest forms to be requested for in the organization’s history, yet to break triple digits although SHIELD has already cycled through thousands upon thousands of employees. And a form for a marriage between _two men_? The most renowned and successful handler-asset pair on SHIELD’s records to date?

Yes, he and Clint are making waves in more ways than one with their soon-to-be legally recognized matrimony.

“Well, well, _well_ ,” Nick drawls, straight and pearly teeth glinting under bright, cool lights as he glances down at the form chucked onto said desk. “A mouse finally nibbled on you and found you _tasty_ , Cheese.”

Coulson sits on one of the cushioned chairs in front of Nick’s desk, unbuttoning his dark gray blazer as he does so. His posture is far more relaxed than it would be with anyone else (except Clint), his legs spread, his right arm propped up on the backrest of the chair next to the one he’s seated on.

“Not a mouse. A hawk,” he says, eyes twinkling.

“So I see,” Nick says, still grinning, having picked up the form and read the name and codename of his spouse-to-be inscribed on it in neat, capital letters. “And congratulations on the _chick_ coming along soon.”

Coulson raises one eyebrow and narrows his eyes.

“ _Chick_? Really?”

Nick places the form back on his desk and shrugs, his one heavy-lidded, brown eye twinkling as well.

“ _Hey_ , you’re the one insisting it was a _bird_ that caught you. I’m just following your cue. Don’t blame me if you can’t get your _metaphors_ right.”

Coulson’s lips quirk up for a moment. Then, with a softer expression, one that only Clint and the other man in this room has ever seen, he glances down at the form and murmurs, “He didn’t catch me. He chose me.”

He doesn’t have to look at Nick to know Nick’s shaking his head and grinning again.

“Damn, son. You got it _real_ bad, don’t you?”

He doesn’t bother to deny it, at all.

“Yeah. And I’m not getting off this ride until I’m dead,” he says, lifting his head and looking Nick in the eye, and Nick gazes back with a warm, unguarded eye that no one else in the entire Helicarrier will ever see. Yeah, Nick gets what he’s talking about, considering Nick’s been married himself for over fifteen years now with two fearsome, badass daughters who still call him Uncle Phil (and will soon refer to Clint as an ‘uncle’ too).

“Leah and Siobhan have been asking about you again,” Nick says, sitting back and criss-crossing his fingers over what Coulson knows is still a flat, muscular abdomen (and only fools with a death wish will assume _age_ will weaken Nick Fury in any way). “Wondering if you’ll be joining us for Christmas again. Do I tell them that dear Uncle Phil will be coming along with his _husband_ and _baby_?”

Coulson glances with pleasant surprise at his old friend. No one, _no one_ else in SHIELD has any idea of Nick’s family, not even Deputy Director Hill. For Nick to invite Clint and their baby to the Fury residence (still at its undisclosed location and still very much guarded), for Nick to introduce Clint to his _family_ … it is an invaluable gesture of approval of their relationship, and a reminder of why he and Nick have been such good friends for decades.

Still, Coulson says cautiously, “We don’t know if the baby … We don’t know yet if everything will go well. The pregnancy’s only three months along.”

There is zero uncertainty in Nick’s bold reply.

“It’ll be fine, Phil. There’s a reason we hired doctors like Chiew and Sheridan. They’re the _best_ at what they do, or they wouldn’t be working for SHIELD in the first place.”

Coulson nods at that. He hears the message between the lines: _Don_ _’t worry about things that haven’t happened or may never happen. Let the experts do their thing and focus on what you already have_.

“If all goes well,” he says with a lighter tone, “then yes. I’m sure Clint will agree to join you and Sharona and the kids for Christmas.” At Nick’s pointed look, he adds, lips quirked up, “And of course, we’ll bring along the baby.”

And later, he will indeed inform Clint about Nick’s invitation for Christmas at the Fury residence, after another movie night with the other Avengers and while they’re preparing for bed. Clint’s already naked in bed while he’s still stripping off his clothes in the walk-in closet, and he hears rather than sees Clint’s shock at the wealth of new information on Nick.

“Wait, _wait_. Fury’s _married_? For _fifteen years_? And he’s got _kids_? Who’re _scarier_ than he is?!”

As expected, Clint accepts the invitation once the astonishment has passed, unconsciously pressing a hand to his still flat belly. They won’t actually act on the invitation until almost a year and half has gone by, wishing to wait for a Christmas when the baby’s big enough to handle long-distance travel via quinjet.

For now, Coulson and Nick are still sitting and facing each other across Nick’s desk, their faces deceptively blank. They stare at each other for a silent minute.

Then, deliberately widening his eye, Nick says vehemently, “Of _course_ I’ll be your witness. Muthafucker, you actually came in here to _ask_? ” When Coulson begins to grin with crinkled eyes and equally pearly, glinting teeth, Nick adds dramatically, “I am _offended_ , Phillip. I _demand_ compensation for this offense!”

It takes Coulson a few seconds to set his expression to a deadpan one.

“You get to be only one of two witnesses to my marriage ceremony.”

Nick stares back with an equally deadpan face.

“You get to be only one of two witnesses to my marriage ceremony, and you’ll get to rub it into Tony Stark’s face because none of the other Avengers except Romanov will be there.”

Nick stares back for a couple of seconds more, then says, “Go on.”

Coulson’s lips tremor for an instant. Then, totally deadpan once more, he says, “And when the betting pools start on my _married life_ , you’ll get first dibs on firsthand info.”

They stare at each other silently for a minute. Then, in unison, they crack up into guffaws.

“Cheese, did I tell you? I got a new _back patio_ for the house recently,” Nick says, grin gone wicked (although when has it _never_ been wicked, really?). “You oughta swing by some time. After all, I have my many _lackeys_ and their _rabid fascination_ with your _sex life_ to thank for it!”

“You asshole,” Coulson says, still chuckling.

“You say that like it’s an _insult_. You think the brain’s the most important organ of the human body? _Naw_ , son, you _dead_ sooner or later if you don’t have an _asshole_ to get rid of all that _bullshit_!”

They laugh together a second time, and for a while, they’re just Phil and Marcus again, young men at heart who are still the best of friends, who have laid down their lives for each other countless times and always will.

“Phil?” Nick says, after they’ve calmed down.

“Yeah?” Coulson says, lips still quirked up.

“You pick the date and time, I’ll deal with the rest.”

And true to his word, Nick shows up right on time at the Manhattan Marriage Bureau on the selected date to be a witness for the ceremony, about two weeks after being handed the Declaration of Marriage Between Coworkers form in his office. Nick’s definitely pulled some strings, since reservations or appointments usually aren’t allowed for marriage ceremonies and they run into no one else as they take a back way into the building and to the chapel.

“Phil, have you forgotten that you’re marrying a _world-famous Avenger_ who fought an _army of alien invaders_ and a _Norse god_?” Nick asks with eyebrows raised, attired in a black leather blazer and red tie. “You think I wasn’t going to secure the _shit_ outta this place for you?”

Coulson, in his pin-striped, midnight blue suit that Clint treasures so and a brand new, purple silk tie, glances down at the gray, carpeted floor with a smile.

“No, Nick, I have not forgotten,” he says, and the mere thought of Clint arriving soon with Natasha makes him feel like floating into the air until he hits the ceiling. He gets why Clint insisted on them seeing each other only at the chapel after dressing up. They’d mutually decided to surprise each other with their personally chosen outfits, and he can’t _wait_ to see what Clint will be wearing for the ceremony.

He fidgets with the velvet ring box in the pocket of his pants. He lifts his head and glances at Nick who’s looking at him, and when Nick gives him a friendly punch on the arm, he realizes that he’s still smiling. That he’s been smiling the whole morning.

Ah, well. He can cut himself some slack on that, just for today. It isn’t every day that he’s getting married to the Love of His Whole Life.

About six minutes after he and Nick enter the chapel, Clint makes his appearance with Natasha. He hears them first, speaking loud and jovially enough in Russian that they can be heard through the door. Nick and the officiant, a Mr. Morales who’s standing behind a wooden lectern with a sincere, affable expression, may not be fluent in Russian, but _he_ is.

He hears Clint say, “Vy luchshe ne smeyat'sya nado mnoy kogda ya plachu.” _You better not laugh at me when I cry_.

And he hears Natasha’s amused reply, “Za kogo vy menya prinimayete? Besserdechnyy zver'?” _What do you take me for_? _A heartless beast_?

The thought of Clint crying makes him think of an extremely sunny, pellucid morning over a month ago, when he did witness Clint do so. It’d almost ripped him in two to watch Clint trying to hold himself together and then shatter to pieces after days of self-torment and self-imposed loneliness, to feel Clint pulling away from him multiple times as if Clint didn’t want to _infect_ him with whatever _foulness_ Clint perceived himself to have, to _be_. It _had_ ripped him in two when Clint - who he’s seen casually amble around with bullet wounds and stab wounds like they were just nuisances, before - crumpled into tears and raucous sobs over the magnitude of finally having happiness and _keeping_ it.

He’d also wept. He’d held Clint up like Clint had held him up, whether Clint knew it or not then. He had held Clint in his arms after they made love on the couch. Held Clint again that night in bed after making more love, and again in the morning, when Clint threw up from morning sickness. And when it sank in, _really_ sank in that _his baby_ is growing inside _Clint_ , he’d almost lost his composure again while Clint was napping and he was alone in the shower, from the _joy_.

If, _if_ (although it’s probably more a matter of _when_ ) he weeps today … he’ll cut himself some slack on that, too.

Natasha is the first to enter the chapel, with Clint behind her. She’s dressed in what seems to be a maxi dress version of her catsuit, with a simple, gold necklace adorning her neck. (Later, during brunch with her and Nick, he’ll notice the miniature arrow and pistol hanging from it.) And Clint is -

Everything else in existence fades away as Coulson gazes upon the blond, blue-eyed exquisite man who’s striding up to him with a sun-bright smile. His chest swells with an inhalation of wonder, of reverence as he is granted the honor of canvassing this man - his best friend, his lover, soon to be his _husband_! - with his eyes from head to toe. Clint’s spiky, golden hair is aglow under the warm ceiling lights of the chapel, as are those big, blue eyes crinkled with jubilation. He still wants so much to trace with his fingertips the length of that prominent, charming nose. He still wants so much to press the pads of his fingers upon those soft yet masculine lips, to caress the light, five o’clock beard shadow that accentuates sharp cheekbones and a sculpted jaw. He still wants to raise those adroit hands of an archer to his lips and trace their callouses with his tongue, and never let them go. He still wants so _much_ to run his hands down those sinewy, strapping arms and their veins, down that athletic, sturdy torso and long, lean legs that are now clothed in a splendid purple suit and a dark gray tie dotted with gold arrows.

He wants, he loves. Oh, he _loves_ this man, like he has loved no one else before and never will again.

 _It_ _’s you_ , that thing in the left side of his chest sings, brilliant as morning sunlight that streams through their bedroom windows and upon them on their bed. _It_ _’s you. My tremendous, wonderful you._

“Oh,” he breathes out, feeling weak-kneed, feeling as if the floor has fallen away from beneath his feet when Clint reaches him and draws him with both arms into an ardent, open-mouthed kiss.

He thinks that maybe all the stars and the planets and nebulae are in perfect alignment once more, in this very moment in Time, just for them. He thinks that maybe they’re all cheering right now, yet again, releasing their universe-shaking laudation with supernovas and the collapse of stellar nurseries and the whirling of dust grains around protostars in an eternal loop. He thinks that maybe he’s falling head over heels in love all over again with this man, that he’s never going to walk on land again and soar forever with this man until they reach the Universe That Was Before and go even farther. He thinks that he must be the luckiest sonofagun alive in this universe, to be fortunate enough that this blond, blue-eyed, _exquisite_ man feels exactly the same way about him.

“You know, the officiant hasn’t even _spoken_ yet,” Nick says as if from so very far away, very much a part of this historic, inestimable event. “Can you two stop _devouring_ each other’s faces long enough for that?”

Coulson feels Clint smiling against his lips, just like he’s smiling against Clint’s. He presses his forehead to Clint’s and gazes into Clint’s shining eyes, still smiling, still smiling.

 _Clint_ , that thing in the left side of Coulson’s chest sings, _your name is Clint Barton-Coulson_.

Grasping each other’s hands, he and Clint stand face to face in front of the officiant. Clint is staring at him like he is at Clint, scrutinizing his face as if everything else in existence has faded away. Clint looks _triumphant_ , for everything he had never expected to find and to have are now truly his. Truly _theirs_.

“Phil and Clint, you are here this day to affirm your love and commitment to each other,” the officiant pronounces from behind the lectern from so very, very far away, after an eon. “May you always remember to value and respect each other as unique individuals, for each other’s thoughts, ideas and feelings. May you always be able to forgive and forget when wronged, and live each day that you may share it together, for from this day forward, you will be each other’s comfort, sanctuary and home.”

Coulson has to swallow past a rock in his throat as Clint’s eyes start to glisten, as his own vision starts to blur.

“Phil, do you take Clint as the husband of all your days, the companion of your heart and the friend of your life? Do you promise to stand united in the face of all adversity and bask together in the light of good fortune? To love and cherish Clint freely, honestly and without hesitation? To accept him just as he is, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, for better or worse, and forsaking all others for so long as you both shall live?”

“I do,” Coulson says, quietly, huskily and he has to blink hard to see Clint’s face again, to see that sweet, closed-lipped smile upon it.

“Clint, do you take Phil as the husband of all your days, the companion of your heart and the friend of your life? Do you promise to stand united in the face of all adversity and bask together in the light of good fortune? To love and cherish Phil freely, honestly and without hesitation? To accept him just as he is, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, for better or worse, and forsaking all others for so long as you both shall live?”

“I do,” Clint says, quietly, huskily and yes, Clint’s voice is still very much that of a glorious lark.

Coulson’s right hand moves on its own volition into the pocket of his pants to take out the velvet ring box in it. Coulson hears the officiant speaking again, but he doesn’t hear the words themselves. All his senses are honed in on Clint who’s gazing at the now open ring box, at the two extra-heavy weight, court-shaped rings in luxurious platinum. Both rings are engraved on the inside, each with a Latin message picked by one for the other.

“Una in perpetuum,” Coulson says as quietly and huskily, taking and holding Clint’s extended left hand, sliding the smaller ring onto Clint’s finger. “Together forever.”

Clint swallows hard as he clenches his visibly quavering left hand into a fist for a moment, knuckles up so the ring catches the light. As Coulson’s expected (and paid for to be certain), the ring is a perfect fit. Clint swallows hard again as he slides the other ring onto Coulson’s finger, and no one points out that both of Clint’s hands are quavering, that so are Coulson’s.

“Nunc scio quid sit amor,” Clint says also as quietly and huskily, gazing into his eyes with wet ones, cupping his cheek with one hand. “Now I know what love is.”

It’s Coulson who draws Clint with both arms into a passionate, open-mouthed kiss now, shutting his eyes before they can spill, shutting them just a little too late for that. Clint doesn’t seem to mind the dampness at all, what with Clint’s own cheeks being damp too. He curves his fingers around Clint’s elbow. He feels their heartbeats align as their chests and lips mold together like they’re created for each other (and they are, _they are_ ). He feels like melting into Clint, like his whole world’s spiraling out and going hazy around the edges. He feels like he’s being remade from a chaos of stardust and particles into someone new, someone _better_ , the map of his new self his humble offering to his husband for the rest of their days.

He opens his eyes as Clint stipples kisses along his cheekbone. He seeks Clint’s lips with his own one more time, kisses Clint again. Then they stand with their foreheads and noses touching, Clint’s hands cradling his neck while his arms clinch around Clint’s waist. He can feel Clint’s warm hand against his beating pulse. He can feel Clint’s warm breaths upon his lips. He can feel _Clint_ , feel Clint’s soft yet masculine lips bowing up in a smile again, feel Clint’s tender laughter settle into the very core of him and make its refuge there.

 _So this is what it feels like to come home again_ , the steadfast, singing thing in his chest proclaims, as cloudless and star-sprinkled as the night on which he was born. _This is home. I_ _’m home again_.

Three days from now, Natasha will be sending Clint all the photographs she snaps of the entire ceremony to his StarkPad. Clint, as much as he denies being a mushbag just like him, makes their favorite photo the background of both their StarkPads: Their kiss after sliding their wedding rings on each other, his hands on Clint’s elbow and waist, Clint’s left hand cupping his streaked face, Clint’s lustrous ring catching the light and keeping it, keeping it.

And while Clint’s receiving the photos, he’ll be nude and content on their disheveled bed, teasing Natasha via instant messaging about how he’d caught her blinking numerous times trying not to cry herself. Her reply had been something along the lines of, “There was dust. Don’t make me shock you again with my Bites, durak.” (Which she really doesn’t, after Clint tells her about the pregnancy over dinner in their apartment six days from now. Neither one of them point out her glistening eyes then.)

But for now, for now, Natasha is tightly embracing a still smiling Clint, and Nick is grinning from ear to ear as he gives Coulson an earnest smack on his upper back.

“Wanna know what the _latest_ betting pools are?”

“Oh god,” Coulson mutters, narrowing his eyes while Nick snickers.

“One group is convinced that you and Barton are going to break up within the next six months,” Nick says, which earns a very derisive snort from Coulson. “Another group is convinced that one of you is going to _cheat_ on the other - the money being more on Barton - when the _stresses_ of being the most famous handler-asset pair of SHIELD get the best of you both.”

“Really,” Coulson says, disdain dripping off each letter of the word. Clint’s going to laugh _so hard_ at that one. And probably stab a few people in the face with arrows.

“ _Another_ is convinced that you and Barton are going to _quit_ SHIELD to eventually get married,” Nick says with one raised eyebrow, which earns a look from Coulson and an unambiguous shake of the head.

“Seriously, Nick, you think I’d _quit_ SHIELD without _telling you_?”

Nick snickers again, his eye twinkling.

“I dunno, Phil. If you’d told me just _two_ years ago that you were going to end up marrying a bow-and-arrow-toting man who’s _pregnant_ with _your kid_ , I would have told you to get the fuck outta here,” Nick says, which evokes a blithe laugh from Coulson. “And yet, here you are, doing just that. I really don’t _know_ , Phil, you might just _shock_ me some more and tell me you’re opening up a Captain America memorabilia shop in Brooklyn and that you’ve been moonlighting as a professional _gigolo_ in the _Meat Packing District_!”

“Is that all?” Coulson says, his lips tremoring and his eyes also twinkling.

Nick gazes at him with an overly innocent expression and wags one finger in the air as he says, “Oh … come to _think_ of it, there _is_ one _very_ small group that’s convinced that not only will you and Barton stay together and get hitched, you’ll have a _baby_ too. With the odds going _up_ on it being within the next eight months. ” As Coulson starts to grin once more and shakes his head, Nick adds with tremoring lips of his own, “Yes, Sharona _has_ been asking for a kitchen renovation for a while. I was thinking maybe I should get a _wine cellar_ while I’m at it. What do you think?”

“You _asshole_ ,” Coulson retorts, grinning even wider, and Nick grins back and says, “Still not an insult.”

They turn to each other at the same time and embrace each other, with Nick patting his back.

“Happiness. It’s a good look on you, Cheese.”

Clint absolutely agrees, as Clint tells him later in the walk-in closet of their apartment after a day of reserved albeit buoyant celebration with Nick and Natasha in the city. (The wilder though private, karaoke-included celebration with the other Avengers will take place about a week and half from now, after Clint reveals his trans and married status plus the pregnancy to them over breakfast.)

“I think we could light up the whole of New York if we stuck a plug up your ass right now,” Clint says, grinning at him while stripping off the purple jacket of his suit.

A hot tendril of anticipation unfurls itself in the pit of his stomach at Clint’s choice of words. Clint has no clue of how _close_ he is to the plans he’s got for them tonight in their bed. And it’ll have to be tonight instead of right now in the late afternoon, as much as his spirit is willing. He may be physically fit but he isn’t young anymore, he knows it, and his body’s hankering for a nap. He can only hope Clint will be forgiving of this necessary delay of their much more exclusive, _intimate_ celebration.

Already stripped down to his briefs, he waits for Clint to do the same before pulling Clint to him with both hands around Clint’s wrists.

“You’re so damn beautiful,” he murmurs against Clint’s lips, sliding his hands up and down Clint’s brawny arms, humming into Clint’s mouth when Clint slides those calloused hands over the swell of his ass.

“So are you,” Clint whispers while kissing him, slotting their lips and tongues together. “So are you.”

He’s gearing up to tell Clint how sorry he is that this is as far as he can go for now, that he can still blow Clint (and _fuck_ , does he enjoy sucking and licking that enlarged clit until Clint goes berserk with bliss from it) or play with Clint’s nipples (and he’s made Clint come just from that before, _oh yes_ ) when Clint abruptly huffs out what sounds like a contrite laugh and presses their foreheads together.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this. I want _so bad_ to feel you inside me again, babe … but I’m too tired to fuck.”

Coulson shuts his eyes and also smiles, hugging Clint even closer to him and savoring the smoothness and heat of Clint’s body.

“Me too. I need a nap.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’m sorr-”

He goes silent when Clint presses a forefinger on his lips.

“If you’re apologizing for _being human_ ,” Clint says, one eyebrow raised (and Clint got that from _him_ , he’s certain of it, and that is so _sexy_ ), “I am gonna smack you.”

After Clint removes his finger, Coulson quirks his lips up and murmurs, “I just meant, I want to make you feel good all the time, sweetheart. Any time you want.”

“Well, any time I want is any time that _you_ can fully enjoy it with me too, capisce?”

He lets his smile expand across his face, and watches one grow upon Clint’s face as well.

“Loud and clear.”

Then Clint’s lips are upon his again in a chaste kiss, then another, and another, and then Clint is guiding them out of the walk-in closet to their en suite bathroom with one hand grasping his.

“Okay, shower and a nap,” Clint says without glancing back at him.

“Shower and a nap,” Coulson replies, knowing that Clint doesn’t have to glance back to know that he’s there, always there.

Their shower together is hasty. They wash each other’s hair but clean themselves under the _unbelievable_ water pressure and flow (and bless Tony Stark for his hedonistic tendencies, if nothing else). They tumble into bed together naked after drying themselves off, with Coulson on his back and Clint snuggled up to his left side with that golden head resting on his shoulder and a muscular left arm folded up on his chest. Coulson wraps his left arm around Clint and intertwines the fingers of their left hands, his throat bobbing once in a long swallow when he feels their rings side by side, when Clint squeezes his fingers and doesn’t let go.

“Love you, Phil,” Clint whispers, already falling asleep.

“And I love you,” he whispers back, planting a kiss on the crown of his husband’s head.

The sun has set and the bedside lamps are on when Coulson is gently awakened by kisses to his face and neck. He smiles before opening his eyes, and when he does, he sees a very much awake and sprightly Clint grinning down at him before swooping down to kiss him, pushing a nimble tongue past his lips and into his mouth. He opens his jaw wider to deepen the kiss and Clint moans at that and swiftly, so swiftly he goes hard at the sensual sound, his cock rising and skimming Clint’s inner thigh. He lets out a low noise when Clint’s fingers scratch the thatch of dark hair beginning to go gray above his cock, when Clint palms the line of his cock and thumbs the droplet of pre-come on its head.

“ _Mmmm_ , Clint,” he murmurs with a voice still hoarse and thick from slumber. He lets out another low noise as Clint eagerly works that hand up and down the stiff length of his cock. Oh, he’s coming back real fast from the realm of sleep now, and Clint knows it, blatantly conveying his desire by taking one of his hands and sliding it along the silky, puffy folds in the cusp of Clint’s thighs. Clint is already so _wet_ , so _ready_ for him.

He would be a damn liar if he ever claims that he doesn’t discover absolute, unparalleled pleasure every time he’s deep inside Clint. On any other night, he would already be lining his cock up with Clint’s hole and thrusting in, in, _in_ to the aria of Clint’s salacious cries. But tonight, _tonight_ , it won’t be Clint who’s going to be fucked to an inch of his life.

He licks his lips as he crooks his fingers against Clint’s tight, wet hole but doesn’t penetrate it, as Clint shudders and bucks those gorgeous hips down on his fingers. Those hips are going to _ram_ his ass so hard and good. He hopes Clint will leave bruises on him like he did on Clint the first time they made love, small badges of honor that he’ll be so proud of like Clint was proud of his. He hopes he isn’t going to come after just a few strokes, because he wants this first experience to last as long as possible for Clint.

Because it’s a first experience for _him_ too, getting fucked by another man.

Clint makes a faint sound of bafflement when he withdraws his hand and gives Clint a soft peck on the lips and then slips off the bed from under Clint.

“Hey, where are ya going?” Clint says as he walks to the wooden chest of drawers facing the bed, hushed and fondly. “I’m _here_ , ya know, not _there_.”

Coulson can feel Clint’s gaze on his ass. He allows himself to smile for an instant as he opens the top drawer and takes out the object that he’s concealed there under a pile of towels for weeks, that he’s _fantasized_ about for as long.

“ _C_ _’mon_ , come back here and fuck me through the bed already, babe, what are you … doing … all the way … there.”

Coulson has to suck in both lips to not crack up into a chuckle at Clint trailing off into an astounded silence and sitting up ramrod straight on the bed, at Clint’s eyes widening more and more at the very phallic and luridly _purple_ object in his hands.

“Oh, _this_?” he says with his finest deadpan expression, presenting the entirety of said object with both hands. “This here is a custom-made, vibrating strap-on dildo with a synthetic three-strap harness. Attached to the harness is a jelly-coated vibrating egg to stimulate your clitoris as well as a vibrating internal plug.”

“Huhbuh,” Clint says eloquently, still staring at the strap-on dildo with gigantic eyes.

“Yep, it has a controller too. The controller has three motors and plug-in jacks so we can control what we want to vibrate or not,” Coulson says, and oh fuck, he’s getting as hard as he can get just _talking_ about it.

“Oohhwuh,” Clint says as eloquently.

“There are five vibration speeds to choose from, and all it takes to change the speed is a slide button. Convenient, right?”

“Oohmhhguuhhh,” Clint says even more eloquently.

Coulson nods and breezily says, “ _Oh_ , and before I forget, I think we should try double penetration dildos too. And if you enjoy this internal plug, we’ll get you a harness with dual internal plugs and see if you like being penetrated by two plugs at once too. _And_ if you get bored of this particular dildo or just want more to play with, we can always buy more with different textures and shapes. What do you think?”

He almost, _almost_ laughs out loud when he sees that Clint is gaping preposterously at him (and yet still so profoundly _attractive_ ), eyes bulging at this point and lower jaw sagging. He turns back to the chest of drawers, slowly putting the strap-on dildo back.

“Or if you’d rather just have sex the usual way -”

A snort of laughter escapes him when Clint lobs a pillow at him and it hits him on his left scapula. He turns around once more to see Clint with both arms stretched out towards him.

"It. Here. _Now_ ,” Clint orders, making frantic, grabby hands for the strap-on dildo and oh, he can’t stop the laughter now, not when Clint starts to also _bounce_ with excitement on the bed and make happy, hysterical noises. He makes sure to also grab the fresh bottle of lubricant in the drawer before darting back to the bed.

He’s still chuckling as Clint grabs his face and peppers heavy kisses all over it, as Clint pins him down on the bed with his wrists above his head until he’s splayed out across beige sheets. He sucks in a breath of exhilaration and arches off the bed and oh yes, he knows the muscles of his arms and torso are standing out, he knows how much Clint likes seeing him so _hard_ and _breathless_ like this. The breath he sucks in next is a ragged one when Clint releases his wrists and moves down between his spreading legs, sliding those calloused hands down his arms, his ribs and flanks, pressing an open mouth to the scar on his right flank.

“Love you, _love you so much_ , Phil,” Clint says into his skin.

“Love you,” he rasps in return, shutting his eyes for several moments to collect himself as Clint runs delicate fingers down his cock that’s so hard it’s curving up against his belly, runs those fingers over and under his drawn-up balls. “Let’s get the strap-on on you, okay?”

“Oh yeah, _oh yeah_ , definitely.”

Several times throughout the process of getting the harness and dildo onto Clint and figuring out the controls, they chortle together, particularly when Coulson snaps one of the harness straps against Clint’s butt cheek.

“The straps feel better under instead of over my butt.”

“Yeah? Like this?” Coulson asks, tugging the straps down to below Clint’s buttocks, framing them.

“Yeah, that’s better,” Clint says, and the huskiness of his voice makes Coulson glance at Clint’s face, makes his cock twitch hard when he sees how flushed Clint is, how Clint’s lower lip has plumped up from Clint nibbling it.

“The plug feels good?”

Coulson doesn’t care that his voice already sounds so rough with lust. The sight of Clint kneeling on the bed with both hands on the sheets, rolling those luscious hips and making the purple though realistically veined dildo sway and _clenching_ on the plug inside him is stirring something deep inside Coulson’s lower belly, something potent and _urgent_.

“Yeah. It’s - it keeps rubbing against my g-spot,” Clint whispers, raising his ass a little more in the air and clearly clenching around the plug again. “ _Mmmm_ , doesn’t feel as good as _you_ , though.”

Coulson shifts so that he’s facing Clint again, and says, “Sit back, sweetheart. Let me show you something else.”

Clint does so, letting out another sound of gratification when the action causes the plug to sink in a little deeper. Coulson gazes into Clint’s half-lidded eyes as he reaches out to grasp the purple dildo with one hand. They’ve yet to handle the dildo after sliding the internal plug into Clint, and if the customizations he specified for it have been implemented as he’d discussed with the manufacturer -

Clint’s eyes open wide when he squeezes the dildo.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Clint rasps, going tense when he slides his hand down the dildo from head to hilt, keeping his grip tight. “Holy shit, I can _feel_ that.”

A satisfied smile blooms across Coulson’s face as he continues to stroke the dildo. He watches Clint squirm and Clint’s eyelids flutter as the plug inside Clint vibrates in synchroneity with the movements of his hand.

“That’s right, if you don’t want to use the controller, the internal plug can still automatically respond to any stimuli the dildo receives.”

“Oh fuck, holy shit _fuck_ ,” Clint groans, staring down at his own groin, at Coulson jerking him off. “It’s like you’re actually - like you’re …”

“Mm _hmm_ ,” Coulson groans too, his breath hitching in his throat. “Just imagine how it’s going to feel when you’re _fucking me with it_.”

“ _Oh my god_ , Phil.”

“Need you inside me, Clint,” Coulson whispers, inhaling sharply through his nose, letting go of the dildo and falling back onto his elbows on the bed, spreading his legs in an explicit invitation. “Need you, need you, _please_.”

Clint clambers back between his legs. Sucks and nibbles marks of devotion into the paleness of his inner thighs, and licks avid stripes up the still very rigid length of his cock. His hips buck up at that, again and harder when Clint says against the head of his cock, “Teach me how to get you ready, babe. Wanna make you feel _so fucking good_.”

“Yes,” he moans back, chest heaving. “ _Yes_.”

He instructs Clint on using the lube and fingers to open him up, encouraging Clint to go ahead by drawing Clint’s head down to kiss him long and lovingly, by skimming his fingers down Clint’s arms and spreading his legs farther apart.

“I don’t wanna hurt you, Phil.”

Clint’s brow is furrowed with concern as Clint gazes down at him with large eyes. He caresses Clint’s bristly cheek with the back of his fingers, smiling softly.

“You won’t. Trust me?”

They gaze at each other for a long moment, the tips of their noses grazing. Then, Clint bequeaths him with a soft smile too.

“I do,” Clint murmurs, trailing those pliant, alluring lips across his cheek, along the length of his nose and the width of his lips, over the rise of his chin. “I do.”

Coulson lets his head sink into the pillow. He helps Clint tuck another pillow under his hips, agilely lifting his lower body up for Clint to push it in place.

“Go ahead,” he whispers. He slides his hand down Clint’s forearm in a final appeal.

He’s fingered himself many times and enjoyed the sensations of it, but none, _none_ of his own attempts compare to Clint pushing those deft, slender fingers into him, one first, then two. His eyelids flicker shut and he breathes out hard through his mouth, trying not to clench around Clint’s fingers, around the slick burn that feels a thousand times _hotter_ this time.

“S’good,” he slurs in more encouragement. “Keep going.”

He lets Clint work in a third finger. Lets out a keening sound when Clint’s fingers rubs hard across his prostate. Oh yes, _yes_ , there it is, that’s what he’s been waiting for. Clint does it again and again, unerringly, until his legs are shuddering and his breaths are serrated, staring down at him with such enamored eyes and an adoring smile.

When Clint rubs his prostate and sends another shock-wave of pleasure through him yet again, he reaches down and seizes Clint’s wrist. Clint immediately stops moving his hand.

“Okay, I’m ready,” Coulson says, his voice scoured raw by his _hunger_ for his _husband_. “Need you _now_.”

“Oh fuck, yeah, okay, yeah,” Clint murmurs, carefully withdrawing his fingers and then slicking the dildo up with lube. Coulson sees Clint’s whole body tremor as the internal plug does its work inside Clint again. He’s tremoring himself, the muscles of his stomach bunching as he struggles to stay up on his elbows so he can _see_ Clint enter him.

God, he’s finally going to feel Clint inside him. Oh god, _finally_.

“Clint, I’ve - I’ve had sex with other men before,” he gasps as Clint kneels between his spread thighs and lines up the dildo with his loosened hole. “But … I’ve never been penetrated.”

Clint gapes down at him, frozen with surprise.

“So I’m …”

“Yes. You’re the first.” Coulson gazes back at Clint, swallowing long and hard. “The only one.”

They’re still staring at each other as a smile of awe unfolds across Clint’s flushed, exquisite face.

“Way to pile on the pressure just before the performance,” Clint murmurs after reclaiming his lips in a tender kiss.

“Oh, I have no doubt you’ll fuck my brains out until I’m shouting the Tower down,” Coulson rasps, swallowing long and hard once more. “But you can always _gag_ me.”

Clint’s response to that is to cradle the back of his head with one hand, to run fingers in his short, sweat-damp hair and finally, _finally_ thrust into him. Clint goes slow but precise, stopping every time he sucks in air sharply or his eyebrows knit together at the renewed burn until Clint is in him to the hilt. The _sight_ alone of Clint pushing into him is amplifying his pleasure tenfold. He feels dizzy and so _full_ and so damn _good_ already, and Clint hasn’t even started _fucking_ him yet.

He hooks his ankles behind Clint’s back. Reaches up for Clint’s shoulders and digs his fingers into their taut muscles, trying to remember to _breathe_ again, squeezing his eyes shut.

“I’ve got you, babe,” Clint says with a tremulous voice. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you.”

Coulson draws in a deep, shaky breath. Then another. Then, peeling his eyes open to look up at Clint, he breathes out with quirked lips, “C’mon then. Give me all you’ve got.”

Clint smiles in return, holds him so close and gently as Clint begins to _move_ , rocking into him with an easy rhythm that quickly speeds up until he’s panting and moaning and _dying_ from the perfect angle of every push in, the perfect strike against that sweet spot inside him. Clint’s a goddamn _natural_ at this, now thrusting so deep and sure, pressing him back into the bed, groaning with him every time their searing skin smacks together and Clint is deep as can be in him.

“You okay? You feel good, Phil?”

“Fuck, yes,” Coulson gasps, nodding frenziedly. “Don’t stop. _Don_ _’t stop_.”

He wraps his legs even tighter around Clint’s waist, tugs Clint closer. They nuzzle each other’s faces and pant into each other’s mouths as Coulson shakes and thrums inside out from the intense pleasure swiveling in his lower belly and jolting up his arched spine like electricity. He can feel with each thrust how much Clint desires him and wants to be here with him. He can hear it in Clint’s moans and hoarse, genuine promises to love him, _love_ him for an eternity and a day. He can see it in the glistening of Clint’s eyes, in the _tide_ of yearning and fondness and faithfulness in them that flows into him and spring in his own eyes as tears.

 _Together forever_ , he thinks with the last vestiges of his lucidity, _when forever is still too short a time for you and I_.

“Clint. _Clint_ ,” he whispers. “I’m - I’m getting close. I’m -”

His vision, his _mind_ erupts into streaks and whorls of golden starlight when Clint starts to _vibrate_ vigorously in him. Oh damn, oh god _oh fuck_ , Clint must have set it to the highest speed and every thrust across his prostate is _killing him_ with pleasure that makes him clutch at Clint, makes him _shout_.

“Yeah, _yeah_ , Phil, yeah,” Clint pants into his ear, thrusts going erratic but even harder, even more _primal_.

He tangles his fingers in Clint’s tousled hair. Whimpers and claws at Clint’s back as he flies towards the edge, the _end_ and no, no, he doesn’t want it to be _over_ yet, he -

“Clint, Clint, _oh fuck_ , oh,” he pants against Clint’s cheek, and when he feels one of Clint’s hands move down between them and _touch_ him, he’s done, he’s arching up like a drawn bow in Clint’s hands, shooting off like an arrow, a _rocket_ and shattering into a million euphoric pieces. Clint fucks him through it with more fitful thrusts, watching his come spurt out in thick ropes over his heaving belly.

Millennia later, his legs are still trembling as they slide off Clint’s back and drop back down to the bed. Clint has collapsed on top of him, wedging his face into the crook between his neck and shoulder, panting into his feverish skin. He doesn’t know whether Clint’s come as well. He doesn’t know why his eyes are so blurry and stinging so much, and he blinks and feels something wet and scorching trail down his cheek, and then Clint’s lips are there, calming and cooling.

“Are you okay?” Clint murmurs. “Did I hurt you?”

Coulson blinks again as Clint kisses the corners of his eyes. He eventually recovers enough energy to sluggishly shake his head on the pillow beneath it.

“Is that a no to the first question, or the second?”

Coulson runs his tongue across a dry lower lip, then whispers, “No, you didn’t hurt me, sweetheart. Not at all.”

He only realizes that Clint is still inside him when Clint slowly pulls out while stroking his side with one hand. He’s unable to stop the small, pathetic sound that slips from his mouth at no longer being joined with Clint, and he thinks that Clint’s going to ridicule him for it. Clint simply kisses him again, on his lips, on his forehead.

“Did you -”

“Yeah, Phil,” Clint says with a slight chuckle and crinkled eyes. “I came at least twice just seeing you _fall apart_ like that. It was so fucking _hot_.”

At first, Clint protests as he pushes himself up to help Clint remove the harness. Yeah, he still feels as weak as a newborn kitten but the faster they get the harness off, the faster he can cuddle up with Clint under the covers. He doesn’t give a damn how _needy_ that makes him, _he got married today_ and just had one of the best bouts of sex in his _life_. He can surely cut himself some slack on this too, just for today.

Coulson flops back down on the bed and stares up at the ceiling with half-shut eyes while Clint takes the harness and dildo to the bathroom. Clint returns in less than half a minute with a warm, damp cloth that Clint uses to wipe his belly and between his legs. He thanks Clint with a tender touch to Clint’s face. He smiles back when Clint smiles down at him. After Clint tosses the cloth onto the bedside table, he pulls Clint down onto the bed with him and caresses Clint’s stomach with one hand, pressing his lips over where their baby - their _baby_ , their baby who’s going to be so _extraordinary_ \- is growing.

 _I can_ _’t wait to meet you too_ , he thinks, rubbing his face against Clint’s stomach, feeling Clint’s fingers stroking his scalp. _My tremendous, wonderful, incredible you_.

Clint says his name, and he slides up the bed at the same time that Clint shifts onto his side so that they’re lying on their sides facing each other, their heads sharing one pillow, their noses grazing and their crinkled eyes warming each other. Together, they tug the blankets from under their replete, relaxed bodies and tuck them around their shoulders.

“Hi,” Coulson says, his lips quirking up into that not-smile that has always been a smile solely for Clint, gazing at everything he’s ever needed and never thought he needed.

“Hi,” Clint says in return, his lips curving up into that sweet, soft and happy smile, his eyes luminous with all the unaging stars and planets and nebulae in universe, with heaven. “I’m so glad it’s you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up in the final update: Baby! Avengers bonding! Baby! Silly Tony! A wee bit of angst! Baby! Did I mention _baby_?


	8. Part IV (A work-in-progress)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, it's been a while since I wrote and updated this story and I have to admit, I was tempted to mark it as complete with the end of Part III. However, I let some folks read what I've written of Part IV so far and they said, "People who love reading about Clint being appreciated and cared about by the other Avengers will _love_ this. You should share and then post the rest of it later when you can."
> 
> So I have, the 13,000+ words of it so far. Enjoy!

**IV.**

 

A week after Coulson and Clint wed in the Manhattan Marriage Bureau, Clint is the one who breaks the news to the other Avengers over breakfast on the common floor for the team.

"So. Phil and I are married," Clint says casually, before spooning up a bite of scrambled eggs to his mouth.

All at the same time, Stark, Thor, Captain Rogers and Dr. Banner raise and turn their heads from their own plates to gape at Clint. Natasha, sitting to Clint's left, continues to munch on a bowl of cereal in fresh milk as if Clint hadn't spoken. Coulson, sitting to Clint's right, sips from his mug of steaming hot coffee and (although he'll deny it to his dying day) gleefully awaits the reactions when Clint tells the other men the _rest_ of the news. Right about _now_ -

"Also." Clint spoons another bite of scrambled eggs into his mouth, chews and swallows, then says as casually, "I'm pregnant. And I'm a trans man. Not a transsexual man, a _transgender_ man, they're not the same thing. Oh, and Phil is the baby daddy. Obviously. _Aaaand_ the baby's due in about six months or so."

For six whole seconds, the other four men stare at Clint.

Dr. Banner, who is sitting to Stark's right and facing Natasha, is the first to react, a slight albeit sincere smile emerging on his face. Sitting at the head of the table between Natasha and Bruce, Thor is next, with a much bigger smile that makes his whole face radiate like the rising sun. Captain Rogers, sitting to Stark's left and facing Coulson, is still blinking and silently mouthing 'pregnant transgender man' to himself. (Coulson is certain that Captain Rogers will be making full use of his StarkPad and the internet later today, knowing the captain's habit of researching everything as yet unknown to him about this brave, new world.) Stark's reaction is the funniest: Stark has frozen in the act of lifting a spoon of scrambled eggs to his open, cavernous mouth, staring at Clint with humongous, stunned eyes.

Coulson has to take another sip of coffee to hide his tremoring lips when a large piece of scrambled egg plummets from Stark's spoon and audibly splats on the plate while Stark remains statue-still. Jesus, if only he could whip out a camera and snap a photo of Stark's face right now without breaking the mood. It's _priceless_.

Natasha finally responds to Clint's announcement, turning to him and giving him a fond, platonic kiss on the cheek. She then gazes at a now smiling Clint and says, "Vash rebenok budet tak krasivo." _Your baby will be so beautiful_.

Clint returns the kiss on her cheek, then replies, "Bol'shoye spasibo, moy podruga." _Thank you so much, my friend_.

The other four men at the table stare at Clint for several more seconds. Then, _then_ Stark responds, dropping the hand holding the scrambled eggs-filled spoon to the table and sitting upright with an expression Coulson can only describe as an amalgam of shock, amusement and relish.

" _Aaaand_ you speak fluent Russian too!" Stark exclaims.

Clint simply snickers and eats another mouthful of scrambled egg while Natasha scoops up a spoonful of cereal and milk and ignores Stark.

Coulson feels a twinge in his chest when he sees that Captain Rogers is now smiling as well, at Clint and at _him_. Captain Rogers' smile is undoubtedly sincere also, and to know that his childhood hero - _still_ his hero - is _accepting_ of his relationship with Clint? And of the fact that Clint is trans and _pregnant_ with _his_ baby?

Holy shit, he may have to excuse himself for a bit soon before he embarrasses himself in front of everyone. He _does_ have a reputation as an inscrutable, scary, top-level SHIELD spy and agent to preserve.

As apropos of the future king of Asgard, Thor stands regally with both hands touching the table top and his back straight and strong, his head held high. What's surprising to Coulson, though, is the evident emotion in Thor's blue eyes and Thor striding around Natasha with both arms raised in readiness to embrace Clint.

"Shield brother!" Thor says with much aplomb and cheer as a still smiling Clint also stands up in readiness to be hugged by a Norse god. "My heart billows with immense joy for you and your consort!"

Clint's laughter as Thor easily picks him up in a crushing god-hug and actually lifts Clint off his feet is one of child-like enjoyment. The innocuous sound makes Coulson's lips quirk up. It makes Dr. Banner and Captain Rogers _and_ Stark smile as well.

"Thanks, big guy," Clint says, returning the hug with arms around Thor's generous shoulders.

Thor tightens his embrace for a moment, then sets Clint down and steps back to place giant hands on Clint's shoulders and gaze down at Clint with bright eyes.

"The arrival of a baby, of _new life_ is to be celebrated! Life ..." - Thor's eyes dim, just a bit, and Coulson is certain that he must be thinking of the Battle of New York, of the lives lost to his mad brother's bloodthirsty vagaries - "It is precious."

When Thor releases Clint's shoulders and turns to him, Coulson has only seconds to prepare himself for Thor embracing him too. Unlike the hug with Clint, Thor squeezes him tight with two very powerful, muscular arms to a very broad, muscular chest, unwittingly smashing his face into said chest.

"Son of Coul! How overjoyed you must be to also be a father soon!"

Whatever reply he could have uttered is stifled against Thor's chest. He can't _breathe_ either, and as more seconds pass and Thor doesn't let up with the (admittedly gratifying) hug, he begins to smack his free left hand against what feels like Thor's right side and lower back. He can hear Stark sniggering in the background.

"Uhm, Thor? Your hugs are _awesome_ and all," he hears Clint say, and oh, he can _hear_ the smile too, "but I think you're suffocating my husband to death with your godly boobs."

Thor releases him at once but still clasps his shoulders, apologizing profusely while he coughs and sucks in a hasty breath. He waves it off, then almost loses his breath again _and_ balance when Thor smacks him on the upper back with another smile. Stark, the _ass_ , is still laughing while Captain Rogers and Dr. Banner stand to offer their own congrats as Natasha looks on with benevolent eyes. Steve shakes Clint's hand and gives him an approbative smack on the upper arm across the table. Dr. Banner pats Clint on the shoulder and then squeezes it. When Stark does calm down, Coulson expects him to blurt out some ludicrous comment about Clint being a pregnant man. Instead, Stark gets up and walks around the table to also hug Clint tightly and without hesitation. Clint hugs back as earnestly, smiling again as Stark pats his back a few times and says something into his ear.

It sinks in for Coulson, there and then, that although they were surprised at first, _none_ of the other men have freaked out over Clint being trans _and_ pregnant. They're all _happy_ for Clint and him. It's mind-boggling. It's remarkable. And it's ... it's precisely how noble, valiant, _good_ people would react to such a personal, meaningful disclosure by one they _care_ for.

Shit, he may have to excuse himself earlier than he thought, especially when Captain Rogers also shakes his hand and gives his shoulder a heartfelt squeeze.

 _Could you have imagined this_ , he thinks to himself, to the little boy in Manitowoc that he once was, _that Captain America would become your_ friend _and accept you just as you are_?

No, the little boy he'd been so long ago would never have, not in a billion years.

He really _is_ the most fortunate bastard in the entire universe.

"You know what this means," Stark says later to Clint, after they've all sat down again and finished breakfast.

"What?" Clint asks, smiling with crinkled eyes across the table at Stark.

"We're gonna have to baby-proof the _shit_ outta this place!" While Clint laughs, Stark glances up at the ceiling and says, "JARVIS! Place an order for a hundred thousand child proof bumpers, corner guards and safety gates!"

"Sir, a _hundred thousand_ of them?"

Stark gives Clint a narrow-eyed, calculating look, drumming the fingers of both hands on the table surface. Stark purses his lips, then says, "You're right. This is _Hawkeye's_ kid we're talking about here." Tony's eyes widen theatrically as he proclaims, "Place an order for a _million_ child proof bumpers, corner guards and safety gates!"

While Clint laughs some more and Dr. Banner shakes his head with a small smile and Captain Rogers raises an eyebrow at Stark, an odd, crackling noise emits from the speakers installed into the ceiling. It's a noise that Coulson will later realize is JARVIS _sighing_.

"Your wish is my command, Sir," JARVIS replies in the most forbearing tone an AI can possibly have.

(To JARVIS' credit, the child proof bumpers, corner guards, safety gates and other child proof devices that _do_ get ordered months from now are enough for his and Clint's apartment and also the Avengers' common floor. It still flabbergasts Coulson sometimes that JARVIS had been programmed with _Stark's_ personality traits and somehow still turned out so _reasonable_. Thank gods-that-aren't-gods for small miracles.)

Dr. Banner and Natasha volunteer to wash the used plates and utensils. The rest of the team move to the living area, sitting and lounging on the black leather couches facing enormous, ceiling-to-floor windows that overlook midtown Manhattan. Clint and Coulson sit on one couch, with Clint huddled against his left side, that head of golden, spiky hair upon his shoulder. Stark and Captain Rogers sit on a couch perpendicular to theirs, with Stark sitting nearer to them. With a satisfied sigh, Thor slumps into a black leather armchair next to the couch he and Clint are on, propping those burly, godly arms on the insulated armrests.

Stark dives right into the serious talk, in that slyly frivolous way of his.

"So, Legolas, Agent Agent. You guys going public with all this?"

Coulson senses Clint's eyes on his face. He turns and dips his head to return the warm gaze, idly scratching at Clint's left flank over a dark purple t-shirt.

By now SHIELD has an official record of them being legally married, all the relevant forms personally filed by Nick. That hadn't done a thing to stop the word of their secret wedding from spreading like wildfire through the Helicarrier, and just twenty-four hours after the wedding, Nick had emailed him with far too much jollity about how _everyone_ on board was blathering about it (and setting up _more_ betting pools, _ugh_ ). The difference now is, people are finally getting _some_ of the facts right, such as he and Clint staying on in SHIELD as handler and asset _and_ as a married couple, and that, in Clint's own words, _nobody_ is going to _cheat_ on anybody _ever_ , asswads.

Be all that as it may, Clint is still mainly recognized and assumed by the public to be a gay man whose sex is male from birth. He, on the other hand, had subtly outed himself as a bisexual during a recent interview with the team for a popular, LGBTQA-friendly magazine's cover story. Before Clint's divulgence today, only he, Natasha, Nick, Dr. Langley and the few other doctors involved in Clint's transition process, hormone treatments and pregnancy knew that Clint is trans. With the exception of him and Natasha, they'd also signed confidentiality agreements that explicitly forbids them from discussing Clint's trans status with any unauthorized persons. Having read for himself the contract that Nick signed, he knows Nick had ensured that the terms and conditions will protect Clint as much as possible.

Those contracts will become moot if Clint chooses to come out to the world as a trans man.

Which Clint won't, considering it was at Clint's behest that those contracts were written up in the first place long ago, before joining SHIELD.

Clint sits up but shifts nearer to Coulson who tightens his arm around Clint's waist. Clint is rubbing at the side of his own neck with one hand as he says haltingly, "It's already public knowledge at SHIELD that Phil and I are married now. It'll be just a matter of time before the press finds out too and word goes out onto the internet. I don't mind that people know that. But ... me being a trans man? And pregnant?" Clint gives him a nervous glance that prompts him to give Clint an encouraging look in return. Still, Clint glances downward with a furrowed brow as he murmurs, "No. That's ... they're really _personal_ things to me. I don't think it's a good idea for me to tell the whole _world_ about it. That kinda information, it's ... people can use it as a _weapon_ , ya know?"

Natasha has joined them, sitting next to Clint with her legs tucked under her. Her presence seems to bolster Clint, who looks at Tony after looking at her and says, "I'm all for using fame to help other trans people like me, but ... I'm still a SHIELD agent. And an Avenger. I think it's dangerous enough that people know what we look like. Where we _live_." Again, Clint glances at Coulson, but with less nervous eyes. "And I don't want our kid to be hounded by the paparazzi. Like, ever. I don't want the choice of a private, secure life to be taken away from them before they're even _born_."

Dr. Banner has also joined them now, sitting next to Captain Rogers on the couch. Coulson gazes at Clint, who is glancing downward once more and biting his lower lip. He blinks when it occurs to him why Clint is behaving this way, as if Clint is expecting a negative reaction from the others.

Clint thinks that he's _wrong_ for not wanting to disclose his trans status to the world, despite that being his wish. Clint is expecting the other Avengers to _judge_ him for this.

Before Coulson can say something, Captain Rogers leans forward and replies Clint with empathetic eyes.

"I think everyone's in agreement with you on all that, Clint. It can't be helped now that our faces are publicly known, but we still have control of what we reveal or don't to the press. And if there's an information leak we need stopped, SHIELD will deal with it. Right?"

Coulson nods at that. Yes, SHIELD has had such a system in place since its activation decades ago. It's been refined and improved ever since, also furtively integrated into the internet and its development ... but that's something for him and Nick and their covert crew of agents and programmers to know, and no one else. (Not even Stark, in spite of all his attempts - successful or otherwise - to hack into SHIELD's servers and databases.)

Stark speaks up then, leaning back on the couch to stretch one arm along the backrest.

"And JARVIS, too. Although there's only so much and so many times you can remove something from the internet. If someone's hellbent on digging up your secrets and publishing it on the internet over and over ..." Tony sighs heavily and makes a face. "They'll do it." Tony points at the floor with a finger. "But the _Tower_? This place is about the _safest_ place we can be right now. The safest place for your baby too. It'll be over my dead body before somebody breaks in here and hurts any of us."

"And mine as well," JARVIS says, which makes a rare, soft smile flash across Stark's face. Stark has often joked about the Tower being JARVIS' physical body.

Coulson knows that Stark and his AI mean it. He can see from the warmth in Clint's eyes when Clint glances at Stark that his husband knows that too.

"Okay," Captain Rogers says, sitting a little straighter and linking his fingers together between his knees. "Since you're keeping your pregnancy a secret from the public, Hawkeye has to be suspended from all Avengers missions and activities until the baby's born. Are you okay with that, Clint?"

"Yeah," Clint replies with a nod. "Might be longer than that. Or ... shorter, depending on how things go."

Coulson gazes at Clint and patiently waits for Clint to make eye contact with him. When Clint does, he feels Clint's right hand reach for his left hand still on Clint's hip to grasp it. He lets Clint entwine their fingers.

"So many things can still go wrong," Clint murmurs to him. "We still dunno yet if the baby's okay because I kept using the patches and -"

"We're going to be fine," he says tenderly, giving Clint's fingers a squeeze. "We are."

Coulson doesn't have to look at Stark to know Stark is rolling his eyes and probably making a gagging face.

"Jeez, now _I_ need a doctor for my flaring _diabetes_ at all this _sugariness_ -"

Captain Rogers smacks Stark's thigh with the back of his hand, but it's Stark's melodramatic reaction of pain at the smack that makes Clint snicker behind a hand pressed to his mouth and Natasha stare at Stark with half-lidded, aloof eyes. Thor smiles like an amused, little boy while Dr. Banner bows his head to hide a smile. It's just what the sobering mood needed to lighten up again, and despite his lack of reaction to Stark's antics, Coulson appreciates Stark's astuteness and ability to manipulate the climate of a group discussion. Stark's charisma and emotional intelligence _aren't_ as exaggerated by the press as people think they are.

When everyone's calmed down again, Tony asks, "Okay, so. What are we gonna tell the press about Hawkeye being absent? You _know_ those assholes won't stop chasing for a story if we don't give them one. A _believable_ one."

Clint glances at Coulson yet again. Clint continues to look at him as he replies, "Phil and I were thinking of telling them the truth. But just a bit of it, for now."

"Which is?" Captain Rogers asks.

Clint glances at the captain and says, "That I'm gonna take some time off from Avenger work after getting married. Use that to stall for time until I, well." Clint shrugs, making a face of dismay. "Until I can't go outside anymore. And then probably have Phil issue a statement that I've gone incognito on a SHIELD mission until further notice."

Coulson sees Captain Rogers and Dr. Banner glance down at Clint's belly. Right now it's still relatively flat, but in just weeks, the baby bump is going to show.

"Yeah," Stark says, drumming fingers on his right thigh. "In just, what? Three months? In just _three months'_ time, you won't be able to hide your belly even with a thick coat or whatever. You're gonna be locked up in the Tower ala Rapunzel until the baby's born. Think you can handle that?"

"Yes," Clint replies, and Coulson knows it's the truth. Clint won't be alone, not with _him_ there.

Still, Captain Rogers looks at Stark and says, "Tony, you got those limos with the tinted windows, right? Clint can still go out in them and not be seen."

"Yeah. Clint _can_ go out like that. But what about when he gets out of the _car_? You're forgetting all the trigger-happy _morons_ with smart-phones and cameras out there. All it takes is _one_ of them to snap a photo of Clint with a baby belly and upload it to the internet in seconds." Stark gestures at Coulson and says to him, "And I bet even SHIELD won't be able to take _that_ picture down before it's been downloaded thousands of times and uploaded again. Remember how fast those pictures of you and Clint kissing on the sidewalk got onto the internet and spread around? Yeah."

Coulson is silent, which Stark correctly presumes to be him agreeing with his observations. It's true that Clint won't be able to leave the Tower once his belly swells up, not unless Clint's stowed away behind tinted glass and inside secure vehicles, unable to interact with the rest of the world. Clint won't even be able to leave the Avengers only-authorized floors, to avoid being seen and possibly also photographed by Stark Industries employees. Stark had made an apt analogy with Rapunzel, indeed.

Thor joins the discussion after sitting up in his armchair, his arms still propped on the armrests in a regal manner.

"Perhaps Clint may find refuge in Asgard instead?" Thor says solemnly. "There is no pepperoni there to torment Clint."

A few seconds of weighty silence pass before it's broken by Clint cracking up into boyish chortles. Coulson's lips tremor more at Clint collapsing against him while laughing than Thor's (admittedly humorous) gaffe. Captain Rogers is mouthing 'tormenting pepperoni' to himself while trying not to laugh aloud. Natasha's lips actually twitch for an instant as she glances at Thor. Dr. Banner's shoulders are visibly trembling and Stark's whole face is contorting in an effort to not burst into guffaws.

"Paparazzi, big guy. It's paparazzi, not pepperoni," Stark says, crossing his arms over his chest in a flagrant effort to rein himself in. "Pepperoni is our friend, okay? Especially on pizza."

Thor seems perplexed, mumbling 'pepperoni' and 'paparazzi' to himself several times in a row while frowning to himself.

"See, now we know _not_ to let Thor order pizza the next time," Stark says, smiling at last, and Clint chuckles some more, sprawled against Coulson and much more relaxed.

Coulson doesn't miss the swift and deliberate eye contact between Stark and Thor, or Thor's lips curving up in a slight, knowing smile that vanishes in the next moment. He glances down at Clint who's calming down but still smiling, and he thinks to himself, _here I am with my family, here I am_.

When Thor reiterates his question in the ensuing tranquil hush, he still means it. It's a tempting offer since Asgard, based on Thor's past assertions about his home world, is apparently accepting of a diversity of sexualities and genders and won't even blink an eye at a pregnant man. Clint and the other Avengers are already deemed as heroes in Asgard due to the Battle of New York, which means that not only will Clint be allowed to roam freely, he will be treated with deference. And there's that particular myth about a certain, currently incarcerated male Norse god who'd become pregnant as a mare after mating with the stallion, Svaðilfari. Coulson is, however, much wiser than to ever point out the comparison to Clint, who still doesn't mind shooting an arrow through Loki's head for harming him ... which is of course why he declines Thor's offer on his and Clint's behalf.

As expected, Thor isn't offended, and agrees with him when he mentions the potential risks of Clint traveling through the Bifrost in his state.

"Aye, the journey along the Bifrost can be strenuous for Midgardians," Thor says, nodding. "It seems we are all in favor of Clint remaining here in Midgard until the baby is born. As for the," - Thor's lips curve up again, this time in an impish smile - " _paparazzi_ , I _have_ longed to practice and improve my aim of lightning with my faithful Mjolnir. Do you think they will be _missed_?"

Stark cackles at that and points both forefingers at Thor while grinning.

"I _like_ you, man."

"I, too, harbor considerable fondness for thou, Tony," Thor says guilelessly, and Stark chuckles, his brown eyes crinkled with very real affection. It is an emotion that Coulson knows only a privileged few in Stark's life are permitted to see and receive from him, vulnerable as he becomes when he gives it.

Once more, a tranquil hush falls upon them that lasts for a few minutes. Then, Captain Rogers says, after catching Clint's eye, "You know what you told us today about yourself hasn't changed our opinion of you, right?"

Coulson glances at Captain Rogers, at the captain's compassionate eyes and face, then at Clint who's sitting up and steadily returning the captain's gaze. He sees Natasha touch Clint's left thigh with her right hand, just for a second.

"What opinion is that?" Clint asks with what appears to be an insouciant shrug. Coulson knows it is anything but. He can feel how tense Clint is against his hip and thigh.

"That you are an extremely skilled archer and a good man who helped save the world from an alien invasion. And that we're proud to have you as a member of the team, and as a friend."

Coulson gazes at Captain Rogers while the captain gazes on at Clint. The captain means every word. The captain hadn't paused or wavered one bit when he referred to Clint as a man, despite knowing now that Clint is pregnant. He gazes at the captain, at the sincerity in the captain's eyes, and remembers all over again why Captain America has been his lifelong hero.

When he turns his head to look at Clint, he sees that Clint's head is bowed, that Clint is gazing down at the floor. But this up-close, he also sees the slight arch of Clint's lips in a smile, as if Clint can't help it even as he's still digesting the captain's words.

At that moment, Stark makes an exaggerated face and drawls long and loud, " _Muuuuussshhbaaaag_."

Instead of smacking Stark this time, Captain Rogers stands up and spreads his arms.

"If I'm a mushbag, I might as well go all the way," Captain Rogers says to Clint with a deadpan expression.

The smile on Clint's face blooms completely, and even as he shakes his head and mumbles, " _Aw_ , man," to himself, he is also standing up to accept the hug from the captain. When Coulson glances at Stark, he expects Stark to still be making a face, but again, Stark surprises him with the slight curl of lips in an open, genial expression as Stark gazes up at Clint and the captain. He glances again at Clint who is still being embraced and patted on the back by Captain Rogers, and his lips, too, curl up in a smile.

He was willing to die for this astonishing, eclectic group of people, when he confronted Loki in the underbelly of the Helicarrier. He still is. He always will be, just like they will be for him and Clint.

More laughter from Stark, Clint and Captain Rogers fills the living area when Thor pounces on Clint and Captain Rogers and hugs them both, squashing Clint between them. Clint is letting out that innocuous laugh again, and to Coulson's ears, it is a rare sound to be treasured by all.

("Did you enjoy getting crushed by all that big, blond muscle?" he'll ask Clint much later that day with a twinkle in his eye, and Clint will chuckle and say, "Yeah, I'd be lying if I said it wasn't kinda hot. Thor is such a giant _teddy bear_." But Clint will also pull him into those magnificent, brawny arms and kiss him and murmur into his lips that all the big, blond muscle in the world can't ever compare to his touch, and he'll fall in love with this exquisite, golden-haired man all over again.)

Shortly afterward, with the hug concluding their discussion this morning, Dr. Banner excuses himself to check up on an experiment in his laboratory four floors down. Natasha excuses herself as well, although she doesn't give a reason. Nobody demands for one (or dares to). She gives Clint another fond, platonic kiss on the cheek before leaving. Coulson grabs the opportunity to go to the kitchen to get a glass of water for himself, after asking the remaining men if they also want one. Clint and Captain Rogers are once again seated on the couches with Stark and chatting animatedly, while Thor goes with him to the kitchen.

He takes his time to retrieve a glass and fill it with water from a counter-top water filter next to the gargantuan, stainless steel fridge. Thor stands next to him but is gazing over the kitchen island at the other three men in the living area, those giant hands clasped in front.

"I remember what you had imparted to me when I visited you during your recovery on the Helicarrier," Thor says to him, still gazing at the others. "There was much I discussed with my Lady Jane, and much that I learned from her as well. Yet, I am surprised again today by your beloved."

Coulson turns to face Thor, gripping the glass of water in his right hand after taking a sip from it.

"Clint has a way of doing that to people," he says, his lips quirked up with fondness. "Repeatedly."

Thor smiles widely at that, and replies, "Aye, that he does." Then the smile dims, and Thor turns his head to gaze at him and say, "When you were away from the Tower months ago, Clint had locked himself in his abode after claiming to have fallen ill and refused to see anyone for four days. I did not know this until Tony contacted me through my Lady Jane while I was still in New Mexico with her. By then, Steve had also gone away visiting his first love, Lady Peggy, in Washington. Bruce and Natasha were not present either." Thor pauses, then murmurs, "Tony was ... concerned. He had feared that Clint's bond with you had _soured_ , and that Clint was not handling it well. We are, of course, glad to see that did not transpire."

Coulson gazes back at Thor with an impassive expression but attentive eyes. Now _this_ , he did not expect from Stark. It's ... touching to know that Stark cares for Clint that much. Not that he's ever going to let Stark know he thinks that. Stark's head will inflate like a _blimp_ , and it's big enough already.

"I speak of this to you, so that you will not judge Tony too harshly for what I tell you next." When Coulson angles his head in a silent gesture for Thor to continue, Thor says, "Tony once told me that, when we joined the Avengers Initiative and were still becoming acquainted, he had sought whatever knowledge he could about all of us. For Clint, this entailed a ..." - Thor raises one hand and waves it in small circles, frowning for a minute - " _breach_ into the library of your house."

Coulson has to smile, just the tiniest bit, at Thor's metaphor for Stark's hack into SHIELD's servers. He's never heard it described like _that_ before.

"He discovered pieces of Clint's past, about his family and his livelihood in a traveling carnival. The recorded accounts by healers of the maltreatment of his mother. The lonely years in an orphanage that has since been closed by your government for its rampant misdeeds against those in its custody. The brutality of his parents' demise. Tony was especially ... affected by that. He divulged that his own parents had died the same way, thought he was older than Clint when Clint's parents died."

Thor is gazing at the other men in the living area again. Coulson continues to gaze at Thor, slowly absorbing the information Thor has given him. Yes, Howard and Maria Stark had been killed in a car crash when Stark was seventeen. The incident had been front page news, with some papers publishing a grisly photograph of the scene itself. There hadn't been any mention of alcohol being the culprit, but then the senior Stark never did hide his drinking habits from the public eye. What would a teenager, a single child, have felt after such a brutal, abrupt loss? What would the man that teenager grew into have felt upon finding another soul who would _understand_ what he'd experienced?

Now he, too, gazes at Clint and Stark and Captain Rogers in the living area. He sees Clint playfully punch Stark in the arm and hears Stark laugh at something Captain Rogers says to them both. He sees three men who have all suffered immense loss at some point or another in their lives, and survived. And then _thrived_.

No, he isn't angry about Stark hacking into SHIELD's servers and databases and dredging up Clint's files. He knows all too well the solace of finding and _connecting_ to someone who _knows_ you.

"As you have guessed," Thor says quietly, "Tony has become attached to Clint, but so have our other brethren, including myself." Thor smiles again, a gentle smile. "As it is for Tony, we know it is difficult for him to accept _kindness_ from others, so accustomed as he must have been for so long to life without it." Again, Thor's smile dims as his tone becomes somber. "He was forged through great fire to become the honed warrior that he is. There is much pain in his soul and in the scars upon his body."

Coulson constricts his fingers around the glass of water in his hand, then places it down on the counter in front of him. He continues to watch Clint conversing with Stark and Captain Rogers, lounging on the couch like an odalisque, seemingly without a care in the world.

"When I look at him, I see my brother, if he had dared to love instead of hate."

Coulson gives Thor a sharp glance, but Thor doesn't look back at him. This is the first time he (and probably anyone else on the planet) has heard Thor speak about Loki since the Battle of New York.

"My brother is who one becomes when one still chooses to inflict suffering and pain upon others, even after suffering much himself. Clint is who one becomes when one still chooses to love and to live, even after being inflicted with so much suffering and pain." Once again, Thor faces him, gazing at him with regardful eyes and he knows what Thor says next won't be just about Clint. "And to remain true to yourself in this world, in the face of so much adversity, over and over, when your lives are so fleeting and _fragile_ ... it is admirable. And humbling." Thor places both hands upon his shoulders, back straight and shoulders squared with honest pride. "Son of Coul, I am honored to be your shield brother, and Clint's."

Coulson hopes that Thor will tell Clint these same words some day, if not soon. He hopes that Clint will truly know just how respected and loved he is, not just by him, but by others in his life, by those who've met him and _seen_ him and _stayed_.

"And I am honored to be your shield brother, Son of Odin," he replies as decorously, reaching up with both hands to grasp Thor's impressive upper arms.

And of _course_ Stark chooses that moment to holler, " _Kiiiiiiiisssssssss_!"

Coulson and Thor turn their heads in unison to see Stark cupping his mouth with both hands while still yelling for them to kiss, Clint sitting up and grinning at them and Captain Rogers giving Stark a look that promises another slap somewhere on Stark's person. Coulson releases Thor's arms at the same time that Thor raises a hand to his mouth to blow Stark a noisy, flying kiss. Clint laughs while Captain Rogers suddenly goes red as Stark plays along and snatches the invisible kiss from the air to press it to pouting lips with excessive, smacking noises. It's ridiculous, but Clint is laughing again, his whole face glowing with mirth and the sight of _that_ is what makes Coulson's lips bow up.

Clint had been _anxious_ about this morning's outcome before leaving their apartment, despite how cool-headed he'd been at the breakfast table later. Clint had almost changed his mind about informing the other Avengers about his trans status and pregnancy ... but then, with one deep, steady breath at the front door, Clint had turned to him and looked him in the eye and said, "Let's do this," and he knew that everything was going to be okay.

Everything's still okay. Everything's _good_. Finally, the way they should be.

Clint gets off the couch as he and Thor saunter back to the living area. He strokes Clint's side when Clint touches his wrist and then his hand in a silent question.

"Tell you later," he murmurs into Clint's ear, and Clint nods.

Clint doesn't object when he takes Clint's hand and begins to lead Clint away from the living area towards the elevator. Stark and Captain Rogers have moved off the couch too, ready to go their own paths for the day. Whatever the other Avengers have planned for themselves, he and Clint already know what they're going to do for the rest of the day. And night. And if the sultry glance Clint's giving him right now is anything to go by -

"Hey, Birdbrain! You didn't answer my question!"

Still holding hands, they turn around to see Stark still standing in the living area with Captain Rogers and Thor. Coulson glances at Clint, who blinks at Stark and then says, "What?" Oh," and flushes, pointing at his obviously flat, muscular chest with a thumb. "Seriously? You think I can _breastfeed_ with _these_ , Tony?"

Stark shrugs with both hands up and says, "I don't know! That's why I _asked_ you!"

Captain Rogers slaps one hand over his eyes. Thor is looking at Stark as if he wants to pet Stark like he would a Labrador puppy.

Clint rolls his eyes, then says, "No, I can't. I had a bilateral mastectomy. We'll have to bottle-feed the baby."

"You know what? Me and Bruce, we'll come up with the _best_ infant formula ever!" Stark exclaims with wide, excited (and terrifying, definitely terrifying) eyes. "It'll be _super-powered_ ! Infused with _every_ vitamin under the sun! Yes!"

"No," Coulson says, expressionless.

"Wait. You mean, it's gonna give my baby _super powers_?" Clint says, eyes huge. "Tell me more."

" _No_ ," Coulson says, turning around and dragging a snickering Clint towards the elevator. It'll be a cold day in _hell_ before he lets _anyone_ feed his baby _deadly, super-powered baby formula_! (Even Clint, but he isn't going to tell his dear husband that.)

When they reach the elevator and the elevator doors open, Stark calls out for Clint again, darting up to them with Thor and Captain Rogers following at a much more leisurely pace. Coulson and Clint step into the elevator and face Stark standing side by side as Stark says, "Hey, _hey_! Hold on a second."

Coulson keeps one finger pressed on the 'open' button as Clint says, "What?"

Stark has one finger held up in the air, brows creased in a contemplative frown.

"Earlier on, and at breakfast, you said you and Agent Mush Daddy are ... _married_."

Coulson stares at Stark with an utterly deadpan expression. He knows Clint's expression has gone equally deadpan, those big blue eyes becoming half-lidded and that attractive face going purposely slack. He knows Clint's already laughing his ass off inside.

"Yep," Clint says, holding up his left hand to display the platinum ring on its fourth finger.

"And ..." Stark waves that finger slowly from side to side, still frowning. "Natasha, she ... was _not_ surprised when you mentioned being married and trans _and_ pregnant."

"Yep," Clint says again.

Behind Stark, Thor is grinning while Captain Rogers is dipping his head and has one curled hand pressed to tremoring lips.

" _Sooooo_ , if you two got _married_ , and _Natasha_ already knew ... then ..." Stark goes motionless and stares at Clint with widening eyes. "You ... invited Natasha to your wedding, _but not ME_?!"

With their deadpan expressions intact, Coulson and Clint raise one hand each to wave goodbye at a hilariously livid Stark who's now standing with shaking fists at his sides, a contorting face and such twinkling eyes.

"How could you! How _could_ you, _you_ \- I thought you _loved_ me, Clint! I thought _you LOVED me_ , you heartbreaking fiend!"

Behind Stark, Captain Rogers is laughing outright and shaking his head, and Thor is waving back at them, still grinning. Seconds after the elevator doors shut, Clint erupts into guffaws and leans against Coulson, and what else can he do but join Clint in his levity? Stark's delayed reaction at being left out of their wedding ceremony (as necessary a decision as it was at the time) was _beyond_ priceless.

But Clint, as much as he still denies being a mushbag himself, grants Stark the chance to plan a private, belated celebration of their wedding with the other Avengers in the Tower. Just four days later, Stark's flown in a (SHIELD-vetted) chef from Italy to prepare a five-course dinner on the Avengers' common floor, set up a karaoke system that almost brings a tear to Clint's eye (although that's possibly also because Clint's barred from any alcohol until the baby's born), and somehow managed to procure and bedeck the common floor with custom-made, purple-and-gold decorative garlands swaying with miniature arrows and ties.

Naturally, the dinner is exceptional, with antipasto served on Italian bread straight out of the oven, chicken soup with strained and beaten eggs, three-cheese manicotti, roasted stuffed squabs with potatoes on the side and for dessert, espresso coffee with sfogliatelle and cannoli. Clint is almost comatose from a sugar high at the end of it, having skipped the coffee and getting served more dessert by Stark as a result.

"Clint," Stark says, after Clint has gobbled down yet another cannolo and is practically draped on his seat at the dinner table with an indolent expression. "Clint. Clint, I heard from _somebody_ that you're the karaoke grand champion for seven years running at SHIELD."

Stark is just as sprawled in his seat to Clint's left, shaking Clint's shoulder with one hand. Sitting to Clint's right, Coulson sips his coffee quietly, as content as he's ever felt, grasping Clint's right hand under the table. He hopes Stark isn't going to spill that it was _him_ who'd - accidentally as it was - revealed to Stark that detail about Clint. After meeting Clint and discovering Clint's reputation as a fine singer, he'd eagerly awaited and then attended every New Year party on board the Helicarrier just to listen to Clint sing. No one else including Clint knew that at the time (and perhaps even now), and he was well aware of how surprised the other party goers were to see him there when he'd never attended the parties before.

It'd been absolutely worth it to loiter around until Clint strutted (oh yes, he did) on stage and blew everyone away with his voice and appeal. And in hindsight, when Clint had noticed him there amid the applauding crowd, the dazzling smile that Clint had upon his face then _had_ been for him, and him alone.

He wants to listen to Clint sing again, and not only at SHIELD's New Year parties. He wants to listen to Clint sing again, for _him_.

"Clint!" Thor exclaims, eating the last of his gigantic serving of sfogliatelle. "Thou has the gift of _song_ as well?"

Clint rolls his eyes at himself, but moments later, he smiles and says, "I'm not too bad at it, I think."

"Hands up, who wants to listen to Clint _serenade his husband_ with a _love song_?!" Stark says, sitting up fast and raising one hand high up. While Clint chortles, the others raise their hands as well, Thor raising both hands with a grin. Even Natasha has her hand up, and her eyes are gleaming and warm as she regards him and Clint from across the table. She, too, has heard Clint sing before.

"Sing! Sing! _Sing_!" Stark and Thor and soon even Captain Rogers chant, causing Clint to laugh again.

Under the table, Clint gives Coulson's hand a squeeze. Something in Coulson's chest clenches when he glances at Clint, at the tender smile that Clint bestows upon him, and only him.

"Okay, _okay_! I'll sing, all right!" Clint bellows over the cheering, and immediately, they move over to the living area where the karaoke system has been set up. Coulson lets Natasha and Captain Rogers maneuver him into sitting in the center of the couch facing the television. Stark and Clint are bantering with each other while Clint selects a song, Clint elbowing Stark in the side at one point and Stark smiling back.

When Clint's choice appears on the television screen, only Thor and Captain Rogers do not recognize it. Thor doesn't for obvious reasons. Captain Rogers had crashed his plane and froze in ice for sixteen years before the song was released for the first time in 1961. It's a stunning coincidence that Clint's chosen this song, since he's certain he's yet to tell Clint that it'd been the song of the first dance at his parents' wedding in 1963.

Standing with his back to the television and facing them, Clint smiles that tender smile at him once more. When the violins begin to play that distinctive, slow intro melody through the speakers, Clint lifts a black microphone to his lips, capturing his gaze with heavy-lidded, poignant eyes.

"[Aaaat laaaaast](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S-cbOl96RFM)," Clint croons, as Stark, Captain Rogers, Thor and even Dr. Banner cheer furiously amid smiles upon everyone's faces. " _My love has come along / My lonely days are over / And life is like a song / Ooh yeah yeah_."

Just like the first time he'd heard Clint sing, the world shrinks and shrinks around him until there is only Clint and that mellow, glorious voice of a lark, resting easy in his ears and his soul.

" _At last / The skies above are blue / My heart was wrapped up in clover / The night I looked at you_."

This time, there is no doubt that Clint is singing to him alone -

" _I found a dream, that I could speak to / A dream that I can call my own. / I found a thrill to press my cheek to / A thrill that I have never known / Ooh yeah yeah_."

And there it is, that sweet, soft and happy smile, as dazzling as it ever was, and now his own lips are arching up too, incapable of resisting his husband's lively charm.

" _You smiled, you smiled / Ooh, and then the spell was cast / And here we are in heaven / For you are miiiiine, at laaaaast_ ," Clint belts out with a flourish as his beguiled audience explodes into zealous applause, with Stark whistling and clapping the loudest.

Coulson stands up at the same time that Clint springs at him. As the applause continues, Clint kisses him stupid, wrapping both arms around his shoulders, pressing those lovely lips on the corners of his mouth and his cheeks as he grins and laughs lowly.

He shuts his eyes when Clint whispers into his ear, "You know you only have to ask and I'll sing whatever you want. Anytime, babe."

He tightens his arms around Clint's torso. Presses his lips with reverence to the abiding pulse in Clint's neck, drunk on Clint's scent and heat, and remembers all over again how much he's going to love this man for a lifetime.

Clint kisses him one more time on the lips while in the background, Stark is rallying Thor and Dr. Banner to sing a few pop songs with him. He can taste the vanilla sweetness of the cannoli on Clint's lips. He can feel Clint's hot breath against his mouth. He sees Clint's lips arch up in yet another smile, smiles himself when Clint rubs their noses together.

And from the corner of his eye, he sees Captain Rogers watching them from the couch next to them, and he can _feel_ the weight of the captain's gaze on him. The thrill that he feels about that, about his _childhood hero_ being so riveted by him kissing another man is ... illicit. Awkward, even, when he realizes that what he's seeing in Captain Rogers' eyes is ... _longing_.

Why would Captain America - whose first love, as recorded in the history books, is Agent _Margaret Peggy Carter_ of the Strategic Scientific Reserve that SHIELD will later absorb - have such longing in the first place?

Coulson learns the answer the following evening, while he and Clint are lounging in the living room of their apartment. He's skimming through dozens of global news channels on the television, keeping the volume low so Clint, who's dozing between his legs with a blanket swaddling him to the neck, won't be disturbed. He lays down a gentle kiss on the crown of Clint's head. He feels Clint turn his head against his lower jaw and neck, but Clint doesn't awaken. He smiles into Clint's luxuriant, freshly showered hair. After the karaoke madness last night (and really, Stark, Thor and Captain Rogers singing a Britney Spears song about raunchy threesomes and dancing salaciously to it is burned on his brain forever), he and Clint had been too tired for anything other than a few more kisses and a night's slumber. In the morning, though, with days left of their honeymoon -

"Agent Coulson, I apologize in advance if I am impinging on your evening," JARVIS says.

He raises and tilts his head, and replies as quietly, "No, JARVIS, you aren't."

"Captain Rogers requested that I ask on his behalf whether you are available at the moment for a conversation regarding a personal matter. He will be happy to meet you at another time if you aren't."

Coulson blinks. Captain Rogers wants to speak with _him_ about a _personal_ matter?

Well, that's new.

"Yes. Please tell him I'm free, and that he can come over now if he wishes."

After a few seconds, JARVIS says, "Captain Rogers is on his way from his apartment, Agent Coulson."

"Thank you, JARVIS."

Clint wakes up as Coulson sits up and grasps Clint's upper arms over the blanket.

"Whass'up?" Clint mumbles, sitting up as well, blinking and rubbing his eyes with his right forefinger.

"Captain Rogers is coming over," he murmurs, stroking the back of Clint's head once. "Seems he wants to talk to me about something, well, personal."

"Cap? Personal? What about?"

"I don't know. He didn't say."

"Huh."

Coulson moves off the couch after Clint stands up with the blanket still swathing him. Clint sits back down as he walks to the front door of the apartment, and he's glad that he's wearing at least a white button-down with his jeans to greet Captain America. (He knows the illogic of feeling embarrassed at not being well-dressed enough for a man who's already seen him in casual clothing countless times and _karaoke-sung Chattanooga Choo Choo with him_ , but still.)

He has to take one deep breath and let it out slowly at the front door before opening it. Sure enough, Captain Rogers is standing in front of it, large hands clasped in front, legs straight and feet precisely ten inches apart. The captain is also casually attired, wearing a dark brown leather jacket over a white t-shirt and light blue jeans.

"Good evening, Agent Coulson," Captain Rogers says, eyes warm and lips curled up in a cordial smile, and for an instant Coulson feels just _bowled over_ at the fact that _Captain America_ is right _there_ in the flesh, speaking to him and treating him with _mutual respect_.

"Good evening, Captain Rogers. Please come in," he says in return, standing aside and gesturing with one hand for the captain to enter the apartment.

Clint isn't as formal in his greeting of Captain Rogers. He props his head on one arm on top of the couch's backrest, still bundled up in the blanket and smiling easily.

"Hiya, Cap," he says as Coulson ambles back to the living area with the captain.

"Hi, Clint," Captain Rogers replies, standing again with hands in front of him and feet at parade rest. He gazes at them both as he adds, "I'm sorry if I'm barging in -"

"No, of course _not_ ," Clint says, waving one hand, the same time that Coulson says, "Of course you aren't, Captain. It's always a pleasure to serve you."

"Thank you, Agent Coulson," Captain Rogers says, his blue eyes warming even more.

Suddenly, Clint is _giggling_ , wriggling into a more comfortable position on the couch while grinning at them.

"Oh my god, you two are so damn _precious_ sometimes. Can you guys just start calling each other _Phil_ and _Steve_ , already? I mean, Phil, babe? You sang _Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Old Oak Tree_ with the guy yesterday. I think that's gotta be some kinda _milestone_ , right?"

Coulson and Captain Rogers glance at each other. Then, they break into low chuckles, dipping their heads and yet smiling. Clint shakes his head at them, now crossing his burly arms on the couch's backrest.

Coulson clears his throat, then raises his head and gazes at Captain Rog- no, _Steve_ , and says, "How can I help you, Steve?"

He can feel Clint smiling at him.

Steve glances at Clint first, then at him, then at the carpeted floor. He sees Steve's hands tighten around each other, just for a second. It's enough of a tell to Coulson that whatever Steve intends to talk to him about tonight, it's important.

Steve stares at the floor for a minute. Then, he raises his head, squares his shoulders. He looks Clint in the eye, then Coulson, and says distinctly, "I think I'm gay."

For one long minute, Coulson can only gape at Steve, at _Captain goddamn America_ who just confessed to being a _homosexual_. Would _anyone_ have expected to hear something like that from Captain America? He's a self-professed _enthusiast_ of the man, a _bisexual_ one at that, and even _he_ hadn't expected it.

Wow. His childhood hero ... is a member of the LGBTQA family. Just like him.

 _Wow_.

Clint appears less surprised than Coulson would have thought at such a revelation. Clint is sitting up on the couch with a straighter back, staring at Steve as if a light bulb just went _ping_ over his spiky, golden-haired head.

"Oh hey," Clint says, a gratified smile burgeoning across his face. "Welcome to the club, Cap."

Steve smiles at that, a wide, brilliant smile that looks exactly like the smile of an illustrated Captain America on the poster that was once on Coulson's childhood bedroom's door. (The poster is now framed and hanging in his home office next to the master bedroom.) Then, the smile wanes into something more melancholic, something that sibilates with loss and regret.

"I know, it's ... surprising. I know people look at me and hear about Peggy and they think, I've gotta be _straight_ , I gotta be a man who loves only women because that's what the quintessential American man is, right? That's what big, tough _Captain America_ is supposed to be, right?" Steve glances down and shakes his head once, still smiling that melancholic smile. "Don't get me wrong, I _love_ Peggy. I loved her before the Ice, and I love her even now, when she can't remember -" Steve pauses and sucks in his lower lip. Then he says quietly, "I love her. I always will. But ... I don't love her that way. Not like how you both, you two _men_ love each other. I know that now."

Coulson glances at Clint to find his husband already gazing at him. The tenderness in Clint's eyes makes him _ache_ deep inside, as if that tenderness is a droplet that plummets into his core and ripples out in waves through his whole being.

He glances back at Steve when Steve says, blushing from forehead to chin, "And yeah, I've only kissed her _once_ , and that's the only intimate, physical contact I've had with _anybody_ so far but I'm ... yeah. I _know_ I'm gay."

Coulson blinks once, twice. Did Steve also just confess to being -

"Don't feel bad about being a virgin, Cap. I never had sex with another man until Phil and I got it on just months ago, and I'm no spring cock. Oh, and speaking of _cocks_ ," - Oh god, Clint's got that devilish glint in his eye - "Phil has a big one and fucks like a _dream_ and makes me come like Mount Kilauea, and lemme tell ya, you will never be the same again after you've been boned by a guy who _knows_ what he's doing and treats you _right_."

Steve turns implausibly redder, flushing all the way down his neck. Coulson thinks he's probably even _more_ red in the face, doing his damnest to not cover his face with both hands, to crawl under the nearest piece of furniture and hunker down in its shadow. He gives Clint a narrow-eyed look instead that promises retribution later. (Most likely in the form of making Clint writhe and scream and beg to _come_ already while he fucks Clint with his tongue and fingers.)

"What! It's the _truth_!" Clint exclaims at him, scarcely clinging on to his innocent expression.

Steve coughs loudly, unable to look either of them in the eye but smiling anyway. Clint smiles sheepishly then, covering his eyes with both hands and laughing at himself. Coulson lets his lips quirk up with genuine amusement. There's no one in this world who can spurn that laugh, he's sure of it.

"I'll take your word for it, Clint," Steve says, and Clint laughs again, glancing at Coulson with contrite eyes. Coulson gazes back with affectionate ones, having already forgiven his mischievous husband. Ah well, if Steve had to learn something confidential about him, he isn't going to complain about it being that he's a _fine lover_.

"So, uhm. Just so you know," Steve says to Coulson once Clint has quietened, "it was Thor who suggested that I talk with you. I didn't actually _tell_ him I'm gay, not yet. We just somehow ended up talking about gay issues one day, and he said that you'd taught him a lot about such issues. I figured it would be wise to defer to you and listen to what you have to say, seeing as you're also our team's SHIELD liaison and someone I can trust. I think I'll have much to learn from you, Phil." Steve glances at Clint. "And you too, Clint."

As Coulson gazes at Steve, he is also seeing his giant poster of Captain America with his wide, brilliant smile and a salute through the eyes of the little boy in Manitowoc that he once was. He remembers Captain America's gleaming, blue eyes and pearly teeth, Captain America's big, brawny body and limbs. He remembers wishing he could meet Captain America. He remembers wishing he could talk to Captain America about liking girls and boys and ask him why his maths teacher Mrs. Shipman (who passed away decades ago) thought it was evil when he wasn't a Nazi.

And here he is, face to face with his childhood hero in the flesh. His childhood hero who's just a man, a _gay_ man, a _good_ man who's saved the world numerous times from true evil.

Sometimes, _sometimes_ , a little boy's wishes really can come true.

Coulson walks up to Captain America, to _Steve_ until there is a mere three feet of space between them. He gazes up at Steve who gazes back with twinkling eyes.

"Are you a Nazi, Steve?" he asks, straight-faced.

Steve's lips tremor for a few seconds. Then, Steve also dons a deadpan expression, straightening his back and standing at parade rest.

"No, sir, I'm pretty sure I'm not one."

They stare at each other for a few more seconds while Clint grins at them from the couch. Then, Coulson reaches out with his right hand to touch Steve's upper arm and guide Steve towards the couch so they can sit with Clint to chat.

"You'll be fine," he says, still straight-faced.

Steve grins too, and rests an arm across his shoulders and tugs him close, as friends are wont to do with each other.

 

<<< >>> 

 

The weeks seem to flurry past like seconds. Within those weeks, Coulson only goes out once into the field on a SHIELD mission, a simple one of apprehending a runaway biochemist with terrorist ties in New Orleans. It's accomplished in less than forty-eight hours with him as the handler of five agents he's worked with before. Still, he sorely misses Clint's presence throughout the mission, misses hearing Clint's voice through his earpiece, and he tells Clint as much when he's back home in the Tower and he's snuggling with Clint under the covers in their bed, safe and sound once more.

"I don't like it either when ya gotta go on missions without me, now," Clint murmurs, stroking the side of his head, his hair. "It feels wrong."

He strokes Clint's hair too, strokes Clint's cheek with his fingers and traces Clint's lips with his thumb. Clint's cheeks appear softer these days, less angular, more rounded. Clint's lips have become plumper, particularly the lower one. He doesn't point out any of this to Clint, recalling Dr. Sheridan's counsel about the high possibility of Clint suffering from body dysphoria as the pregnancy develops. Clint has vented some frustration over the cessation of his HRT to him several times by now, and he knows that a huge blowup is forthcoming ... but he'll also be lying if he claims that Clint doesn't look the most _exquisite_ he's ever seen Clint yet.

For all the jokes about it, pregnancy glow seems to be a very real thing in Clint's case. Coulson has to constantly battle the urge to yank Clint to him and kiss the daylights out of those fuller, softer lips. He can't stop staring at Clint, at the healthy, rosy sheen of Clint's skin that feels so _smooth_ to his touch. Clint's hair has become even denser, and he also has to fight the equally stubborn urge to run his fingers through it and press his face into it.

When he's with Clint in their apartment, or out and alone with Clint on a date, driving Lola around the city with Clint at his side and seeing Clint _glow_ and listening to Clint let out that contagious laugh, he gives in to those urges more often than not. When he and Clint are around other people, even the other Avengers, he restrains himself with his hard-earned self-discipline, limiting himself to brief touches and gentle pecks on the cheek or forehead.

Inevitably, someone catches him in the act of staring at Clint for far longer than he should have. Inevitably, it just has to be _Stark_ \- no, _Tony_ , while he and the other Avengers are on the common floor setting up the table for a dinner of pizza, roasted chicken wings, garlic bread and carbonara pasta.

"Take a picture. It'll last longer," Tony stage-whispers from the corner of a contorted mouth after leaning close to the side of his face.

Tony speaks loud enough that the other Avengers also hear him, and all of them, including Clint, glance at Coulson with varying degrees of amusement. Clint is attired in a loose, black cable knit sweater and gray sweatpants, standing at the opposite end of the table from him and laying down plates and utensils. Clint is four months pregnant now. His waistline has begun to disappear, and there's a palpable baby bump under the loose sweater and Clint is smiling and _shining_ and just ... so damn _gorgeous_ to him.

"Phil. _Phil_ ," Clint is saying, and from the smile Clint is still sporting and from Tony's, Thor's and Steve's chuckles, Clint must have been calling his name for a while. " _Phiiiil_."

Coulson blinks, then blinks again. Then, to everyone's renewed amusement, he picks up his StarkPad from the table where he'd placed it and aims its camera at Clint and snaps a photo. He snaps another one as Clint's smile broadens even as Clint shakes his head and resumes laying down utensils.

"Finally, acknowledged my grand wisdom, you have," Tony says with a sagely expression and tone, patting him on the shoulder.

"Don't push it, Stark," he replies, expressionless, eliciting more laughs from everyone else.

Later, however, he has to admit to himself that Tony's suggestion _is_ a decent one. He starts to snap as many random photos and even short videos of Clint as he can get away with using his StarkPad. Clint entertains his efforts despite initial (and very mild) protest, tickled pink by his earnestness to record these little, treasured moments for themselves and for their baby growing inside Clint.

Even so, there are days when Coulson sees the distress in Clint's eyes, even when Clint curves up his lips and tells him everything's fine (but it isn't). He sees it in some of the photographs where Clint isn't looking at the camera, when Clint thinks no one is looking at him, in that small furrow between Clint's eyebrows and Clint's lips pressed into a thin line. He sees it in the way Clint avoids looking at himself in the mirror in the mornings when they're brushing their teeth and performing other morning ablutions. He sees it in the looser, larger clothes Clint's started to wear to conceal the baby bump, in Clint's reluctance to shave his face so his facial hair remains.

That huge blowup is creeping up on them, but Coulson will be ready for it when it hits. He'll be there for Clint when Clint needs him.

Of all the things that causes the dam inside Clint to shatter, it isn't the fatigue (that makes Clint take more naps) or heartburn (that forces Clint to avoid spicy foods now) or bleeding gums (that did concern them both until Dr. Chiew reassured them that it's normal) or swollen ankles and aching feet (that he massages, even in the middle of the night, when Clint can't sleep) that does it. It's the baby _moving_ for the first time that does.

He and Clint are lazing on a Victorian-style, red-and-gold chaise lounge in their living room on a late afternoon, with Clint between his legs and partially reclined on him when it happens. His eyes are shut, and so he feels Clint's shock instead of sees it. Clint jolts in his arms. He opens his eyes as Clint swiftly sits up and presses one hand to his rounded belly.

"Clint? Honey?" He presses his right hand over Clint's on Clint's belly. "What's wrong?"

Clint glances at him with startled eyes. It takes Clint a minute to murmur, "I think the baby _moved_."

Coulson also sits up, keeping his hand pressed over Clint's. For a moment, he can hardly _breathe_ from the emotion that thrums in him, from the image of their _baby_ twitching a teeny arm or leg inside Clint.

"What does it feel like?" he rasps, enfolding an arm around Clint's shoulders and drawing Clint closer to him.

Clint leans against him, blue eyes half-lidded and staring inwardly, lips vacillating between a slight smile and an 'o' shape of awe. He presses his forehead to Clint's right temple.

"It's like ... butterflies in my stomach. Or like ... something swimming inside me. It's _weird_."

"But it doesn't hurt, right?"

Clint shakes his head and whispers, "No. Not at all. It's just ..." Clint swallows audibly, his throat clicking. "Holy shit, there's a _person_ growing inside me. And I can _feel_ it."

Coulson rubs his hand up and down the curvature of Clint's belly. He won't feel the baby's movement for himself for another week or two, but he doesn't know that yet. Right now, he's mesmerized by the amazement on Clint's face, by Clint smiling softly to himself as the baby moves again.

Clint's high spirits last until the evening. Coulson knows to prepare himself when he catches Clint staring at himself in the bathroom mirror as if at a stranger, a stranger that looks just like him and yet isn't quite him. He knows that when he gets into the shower and Clint leaves the bathroom to go to bed, Clint is going to use that temporary separation to allow himself to crumble, then gather himself again before he gets out of the shower.

He goes to Clint and kisses Clint on the cheek in front of the mirror before stripping and getting into the shower. He hears the bathroom door shut as he turns the shower taps. He washes himself in three minutes, like he did during his Ranger years. He's more languid with drying himself with his bath towel, silent and lithe, listening intently for any sounds from the bedroom. He hears nothing.

He pauses for a moment at the door, his hand on the knob. Then he opens it gingerly and steps into the bedroom naked, a cloud of steam following him. Clint's shut off all the lights except the bedside lamps. As he predicted, Clint's in bed and huddled under the covers, back facing the bathroom. Coulson is almost convinced that Clint is asleep, until he sees the quaver of Clint's shoulders and then Clint turning his face into the pillow.

Coulson swallows down a lump in his throat. He approaches the bed quietly and slowly lifts the covers to slide in behind Clint who's clothed in a chunky, light gray sweater ( _his_ sweater) and black sweatpants. He spoons Clint, wrapping one arm around Clint's torso and nuzzling the side of Clint's neck. He tightens his arm and gently rubs Clint's belly when he hears what sounds like a smothered sniffle.

"Talk to me," he murmurs, resting his chin on Clint's shoulder.

Agonizing minutes tick by before Clint says in a gravelly voice, "I hate myself."

Coulson continues to gently rub Clint's belly. He yearns to tell Clint that there's nothing at all about Clint to hate, that there is only everything to love, but he doesn't. That isn't what Clint needs right now. What Clint needs is for him to _listen_ , no matter what it is Clint says.

"I just ..." Clint no longer bothers hiding the fact that he's weeping, wiping at his eyes with the back of one hand. "I hate myself so much, and I hate that I'm feeling like that about myself. I hate the way I look now and I hate my brain for always thinking that something's _wrong_ with me being _pregnant_ because I'm a _man_ , damnit, and I hate that stopping my HRT and being pregnant is just _fucking_ with my head and _feelings_ and making me feel so _out of control_."

Coulson remains quiet when Clint sniffles again. He gently pulls Clint closer to him and into his embrace, molding even his legs to the back of Clint's so that they're joined from head to toe under the covers. Clint wilts into him and clings to his arms over Clint's belly once they've settled again.

"But ... I want our baby so much. I _love_ our baby so much and I'll do anything to make sure our baby's okay," Clint rasps. "I'm supposed to be _happy_ , right? Because this is what I want. Because I got _everything_ . But I just feel like such a fucking _mess_." Clint falls silent for a minute, then whispers, "And I hate myself for feeling unhappy when I shouldn't be."

Again, Coulson has to swallow down a lump in his throat, and he says, "It's okay for you to feel unhappy, sweetheart. Your body's going through dramatic changes and it's _fine_ to be unhappy with what those changes are doing to you. If it was _me_ going through this? I'd be scared to death."

He feels Clint tangle their fingers. He feels their wedding rings clink together.

"I thought nothing scared the legendary Agent Phil Coulson," Clint says tremulously, but Coulson can hear the smile in it. He quirks his lips against the smooth, warm skin of Clint's neck.

"Oh, there are _some_ things that do," he replies softly. "Like waking up one day and not finding you here next to me anymore. Like losing you. Our baby. Our family." He pauses for precisely two seconds, then says nonchalantly, "Like that horrendous sauteed Brussels sprout dish Tony _attempted_ to cook last week."

His lips quirk up once more as he feels Clint's shoulders quaver with mirth instead of despondence.

"Hey, be nice. He couldn't help it when the whole _pan_ went up in _flames_ like it did," Clint says, and although Coulson can't see his face, he knows Clint is smirking. "We oughta give him a medal for not burning the whole floor down."

"That man came up with a _perpetual energy source_ and designed one of the most technologically advanced, armed robotic suits in the _world_ ," he says with a deadpan voice as Clint snickers aloud now, "and he can't cook a _pan of Brussels sprouts_ without it resulting in Steve and Bruce spraying the _entire stove_ with fire extinguishers."

As he'd hoped, Clint has relaxed even more in his arms. He plants one kiss upon the hinge of Clint's jaw, then murmurs, "Do you remember what I said to you? That I love you for you? That I love you just the way you are?"

He feels Clint squeeze his fingers.

"Yeah. But ..." Clint squirms for an instant, pressing back against him so that they're snuggled even closer. "I'm - I'm not really _me_ , Phil. Not until I get on my HRT again. I look more like how I did _before_ and ... I'm only over four months along and I'm gonna change some _more_. What if I ... what if I look too _weird_ later? Like I'm - like I'm neither a man or ... you know." Clint lets out a silent sigh. "I'm just a mess. I'm gonna be a _bigger_ mess soon. And you're ... you're gonna have to put up with all that."

Coulson carefully considers what he'll say. It would be too easy for him to just say that no, Clint won't look weird at all, certainly not to him and that Clint isn't a 'mess to be put up with'. Too easy for Clint to brush it off. Clint needs to hear something enduring. A promise that lasts a lifetime.

"You're the husband of all my days, the companion of my heart and the friend of my life. I promised to stand united with you in the face of all adversity and bask together in the light of good fortune. I promised to love and cherish you freely, honestly and without hesitation, to accept you just as you are, no matter what, for as long as we lived," he murmurs, feeling their wedding rings clink together again as he tightens his fingers around Clint's. "Do you think I took our marriage vows lightly, Clint?"

"No, Phil," Clint says huskily.

Coulson smiles into the soft skin of Clint's neck, then says, "Then trust me, again, when I say that I _love_ you, just the way you are, and whatever way you may become."

A placid hush descends on them for a few minutes. He feels Clint loosen up even more in his embrace, feels Clint stroking his arm with a hypnotic rhythm. His eyes are almost shut, his whole body limp when Clint speaks again.

"You'll love me even when my face and body start swelling up and I'm not so muscular anymore?"

He opens his eyes to half-mast and murmurs, "Even then."

"Even when I start getting _really_ wacky mood swings and I start _craving_ for all kinds of strange stuff and wake you up in the middle of the night because of them?"

He smiles to himself, letting his eyes shut.

"Even then."

"Even when I start to _balloon up_ like a _fat cow_ and I can't even walk and _shoot arrows_ properly anymore?"

"Even then," Coulson says without doubt. "And you're not going to turn into a 'fat cow'. You're going to be so damn _beautiful_ with _our baby_ growing inside you. You already _are_."

Clint finally rolls around to face him, shimmying onto his back first before turning onto his side. Clint's eyes are clearly red, a touch swollen and only beginning to dry even in the dimmed illumination of the bedside lamps, but they also gaze at him with unbounded love, _humbling_ love.

"Phil. I'm scared," Clint whispers, and Coulson marvels at the quiet bravery that Clint doesn't even _know_ he has to be able to say those words to him.

He draws Clint to his bare chest and tucks Clint's head under his chin, feeling Clint tuck those still muscular arms between their chests so that he can envelop Clint with both arms. He presses his nose into Clint's tousled hair and breathes in its fresh scent. He rubs circles onto Clint's bowed back with one hand.

"I'm scared too, sweetheart. But whatever worries I have, they're so ... _small_ compared to the hope I feel about our future together, to the love I feel for you and our baby." He's abruptly besieged, then, by a tide of emotion so fierce that his voice is reduced to a whisper too. "I can't wait to meet them."

Clint squirms again, shifting higher up the bed so they can share a pillow and look each other in the eye. Coulson curls one arm around Clint's waist. Soon, he won't be able to do this unless he's spooning Clint.

"Them?" Clint asks.

"Well, we don't know if it'll be a boy or girl yet."

Clint blinks. His eyes become heavy-lidded as he ponders on this for a while.

"I think ... it'll be a girl," Clint murmurs, his face softening with a slight smile. "I hope she has your dark hair. And your smile."

The very image of a baby like that coalesces from Coulson's imagination, a rosy and chubby-cheeked baby, with his dark hair and a sweet quirk of lips. With Clint's mischievous eyes, and an exuberant belly laugh.

 _I can't wait to meet you, little one_ , he thinks, while caressing Clint's lower back, feeling Clint's fingers stroking his side. _My tremendous, wonderful, incredible you_.

He sets his expression to a deadpan one and asks, "What if I want her to have your golden hair and rascal smile?"

Clint also sets his expression to a deadpan one and replies, "Too bad, I'm the one carrying her. I call the shots."

Coulson shrugs one shoulder.

"Fair enough."

They gaze at each other with straight faces for another moment more. Then, together, they crack up into low chuckles, and the storm is over and the sun is beaming in Clint's eyes once more.

He still feels a scant ache in his chest whenever Clint willingly shows his back to him, like Clint is now as Clint rolls over onto his side so that he can spoon Clint again. On their first SHIELD mission as handler and asset, when they had to take shifts on a round-the-clock surveillance of a growing drug cartel pushing a lethal narcotic that temporarily granted its user mutant powers, Clint would always sleep with a wall to his back. He hadn't mentioned it then, and neither did he say anything as the years passed and Clint continued to do that.

It was after he was wounded in the Battle of New York, when he and Clint became lovers as well, that Clint showed his back to him for the first time as they settled in bed to sleep. He understood even then what Clint was trying to tell him by doing that: _You're my wall. You're my shelter. You're the reason I don't have to be afraid all the time anymore_.

Clint moans almost soundlessly in contentment as he slides in behind Clint and cocoons them in the covers and Clint in his arms.

"Good night, honey," he murmurs into Clint's nape.

"'Night, babe. Love you," Clint whispers, and yet again, Coulson marvels at how just a few words from Clint's lips can make everything else apart from the two of them in existence fade away, make every raindrop in the aftermath of a storm resonate with the rainbow-promise of warmth and serenity.

 

<<< >>>

 

Clint, to Tony's mortification, really does develop a strange food craving in the fifth month of pregnancy. A _very_ strange one.

Specifically, of Tony's Iron Man suits.

"I really, really, _really_ wanna eat your Iron Man suit," Clint says to Tony during a simple Chinese dinner of deep-fried mackerel, stir-fried bok choy and kai-lan, herbal chicken soup and rice on the team's common floor. "Can I, like, eat one of the old ones?"

The only other members present are Coulson and Natasha. Steve is in Washington once more to visit the elderly Peggy Carter, endeavoring to spend as much time with her as he can while he still has the opportunity. Thor has returned to Asgard due to 'grave family matters', which Coulson interpreted to mean 'my brother is being a little shit again and Dad's called me back to kick his slimy ass'. Bruce hadn't given an exact reason for leaving New York City for a week, only that he needs some time alone to 'recharge himself'.

So, Tony is alone in waging the beginnings of a months-long campaign of high-jinks when Tony gapes at Clint with huge eyes and then says with theatrical outrage, " _You stay away from my babies_."

"Is that a yes?" Clint says, straight-faced.

"No!" Tony exclaims, his eyes widening even more. "No, no, _no_."

"Yes," Clint says, utterly straight-faced, and together, Coulson and Natasha lift their mugs of tea to their mouths and say nothing whatsoever.


End file.
